


Objects In Mirror Are Closer Than They Appear

by AwkwardGhost_1782



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Asexual Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Asexual Relationship, Blind Character, Blind Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Canon Asexual Character, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Crack Treated A Little Seriously But Not Really, Don’t mind me I’m just gonna sprinkle in some Pining Tim, Eventual Actual Arson, Happy Ending, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist Has ADHD, M/M, No beta we die like archival assistants, POV Multiple, Ridiculous Use Of Italics, Secret Relationship, Self Hate But Make It Literal, That’s Right Ladies It’s Projecting On Jon Hours, The Mechanisms Were The Archivist's College Band, There’s One Braincell In The Archives And It Is Mostly With Martin Because I’m Biased, Time Travel Fix-It, Time Travel logistics that make absolutely no sense, attempted arson, canon typical worms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 55,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25835404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AwkwardGhost_1782/pseuds/AwkwardGhost_1782
Summary: And for a second he can hear the door sing and it’s so jarring and nonsensical and, seemingly out of nothing, from it spills a man. Weak and shaky and holding onto the neon frame like he’s holding onto his damn dear life.“Can anyone tell me what year it is?” The man asks and then immediately collapses. The door closes behind him and then it’s just. Gone. Like it had never been there in the first place. Maybe it hadn’t.Tim shakes his head as if shaking off the door’s existence and then immediately exclaims in horror “is that Jon!?”Jon scoffs. “Well, Tim, seeing how I’m literally right here—”Or: The One In Which Self-Sabotage Takes On A Whole New Meaning
Relationships: But Make It Double - Relationship, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 1159
Kudos: 1529





	1. A GUEST FOR THE ARCHIVES

Most days at The Archives tended to be somewhat eventful. If you weren’t breaking and entering or hacking your way into databases you’d be taking gut-wrenching statements if not the occasional fake story to laugh at. Sometimes, though, they would do what their job description actually required. They would be _archiving_ . Martin actually liked those days the most, since it was the only time he actually felt like he knew what he was doing. Working in The Library for as long as he did gave him a vague idea of how things were supposed to run in an Archive. And, look, he isn’t _criticizing_ Jon. Martin is aware that he’s trying his best, maybe even a little too much. But, well, he sort of turned The Archives into another branch of Research. And Martin doesn’t have experience in Research, he worked in The Library. So those ‘slower’ days tended to be a bit more his speed.

Today was one of those days. It was a Tuesday and, to be honest, nobody was feeling like doing anything mildly illegal so early in the week. There were still a few hours before midday hit and Martin was working on quite the meaty statement. Literally. It was a story about frankly repulsing amounts of meat. More specifically he was destapling said statement because stapling is not really a thing you usually do at an Archive, though he was hesitant to tell this to Jon in case he just dismissed him. Again. 

He could see Sasha from the corner of his eye returning from the storage room and mentally hoped she wouldn’t take notice of the staple graveyard on his desk. He didn’t want her to think he was purposely trying to be unhelpful or defiant, he just didn’t want the metal to ultimately ruin the papers. But then she just. Stopped. Dead on her tracks in the middle of The Archives, and Martin felt something wrong settle in his chest. He had the weird feeling that staples were probably going to be the least of his problems right now. 

“Guys,” Sasha begins, tentatively, staring at a fixed spot behind him. “Was that door there before?”

Tim raises a single, well-groomed eyebrow. “A door? What—” He cuts himself off as he turns to look at where Sasha is pointing. “Oh, what the fuck.”

Martin really, really doesn’t want to look. But he supposes there aren't a lot of other options. 

Where there had once been nothing but a plain old wall now stands a yellow door. The room spins around it almost unnoticeably, almost like gentle swaying. The paint appears to brighten in hue the more you stare, or maybe it drips down, still damp with a fresh coat. Whatever it is doing, it’s uncomfortable to look at. 

For the next few seconds, none of them move an inch. What are they even supposed to do? _Open it?_ They might work at an Institute dedicated to the paranormal and all that jazz. But magical doors weren’t exactly part of the job description. 

“No, I’m pretty sure there were no mustard doors anywhere in this building five minutes ago,” Tim mumbles. It feels like the whole room is frozen around them with the pressure of the new company, if you can call it that. Logically, doors are completely inanimate objects, but there’s something about this yellow door in specific that makes it almost seem _alive_. 

Martin keeps staring at the door until his eyes begin to burn. There is something so deeply _wrong_ about it besides the obvious fact that it had just not been there five minutes ago. Unless it had. Had that door been there all along—? “Maybe we should go get–”

As if on cue, Jon’s own normal, if a bit squeaky door opens. “What is going on out here?” He asks in his usual annoyed tone. Any other time Martin would’ve turned in a heartbeat at the sound of his voice. But there was just something about this door, since when—

“There’s a _door,”_ Sasha says helpfully.

Jon frowns (or more specifically, the frown that permanently lives rent-free on his forehead deepens). Martin _knows_ he’s about to protest until he sees it. Martin can tell he can see it, too. 

“That, that wasn’t there before. Was it?” He stutters.

Tim shakes his head in response. He’s expecting Jon to come up with an excuse for this incredibly messed up door, an explanation as to why it’s sudden appearance in The Archives is completely reasonable and not at all supernatural. But then Sasha begins to slowly walk toward it with small, tentative steps. Martin is about to tell her to stop, to be careful, this door is _wrong_ , until it. Well. Until it does what doors are made for. It opens.

And for a second he can hear the door sing and it’s so _jarring_ and _nonsensical_ and, seemingly out of nothing, from it spills a man. Weak and shaky and holding onto the neon frame like he’s holding onto his damn dear life.

“Can anyone tell me what year it is?” The man asks and then immediately collapses. The door closes behind him and then it’s just. Gone. Like it had never been there in the first place. Maybe it hadn’t.

Tim shakes his head as if shaking off the door’s existence and then immediately exclaims in horror “is that _Jon!?_ ”

Jon scoffs. “Well, Tim, seeing how I’m literally _right here—_ ”

And, the thing is, it makes absolutely no fucking sense. But, see, Martin spends a lot of time looking at Jon. He knows he shouldn’t, he really does. And it’s not like he’s _in love_ with Jon or anything. But he’s sort of cute in the way he scowls and spins on that office chair of his that looks way too big behind his thin frame. And Martin just so happens to have a thing for academic men. He also has a thing for highly unattainable men and no, he’s not willing to analyze why. The point is he finds Jon… nice. To look at. Sometimes. A lot. He’s very familiar with the planes of Jon’s face and his hand’s bone structure. And this man that just fell out of an impossible door impossibly looks just like Jon. If maybe he was older and, well, scarred. 

He _knows_ that’s insane but so are magical yellow doors and by the looks of it, this is no longer another uneventful Tuesday. 

Martin says none of this. 

They all end up crowding around the impossible man that impossibly looks just like Jon. His face is almost an exact copy but covered in small scars weirdly shaped like _circles_ . They trail down his neck and presumably down his chest, he can see them peeking from the cuffs of his pants and jacket sleeves. Martin doesn’t think he wants to know how many there are. His entire left hand is burnt with what _cannot possibly be_ a handprint, and a thin line drags along his neck like the memory of a mugging gone wrong. He has Jon’s same hair although much longer, spilling around him on the carpeted floor like a dark halo. Martin imagines it would reach past his shoulders if he were standing. It’s significantly grayer, too, a proper salt and pepper compared to the stray white hairs scattered around Jon’s head. All of his scars look old and long-healed with the exception of the ones on his face across his eyes. They look somewhat fresh and painfully jagged, like some kind of wild animal slashed at his face. Martin winces just thinking about it. The man looks tired. Not like Jon after a week of sleeping three hours a night. This strange man has such a heavy, bone-deep tiredness around him Martin almost feels bad for possibly disturbing his fainting. 

“Is that a tattoo?” Sasha points out after a beat of shocked silence. She almost sounds amused.

It sure seems like a tattoo, at least. A simple compass neatly etched onto his right wrist. For a second Martin gets the impression that it might be moving, ever so slightly.

Tim snorts. “What, like one of those cheesy couple tattoos? _My compass and my helm?”_ He tries to sing for the sake of the joke but it comes out thin and shaky. 

Jon grimaces. “This cannot be me. I would never get something that tacky.” Because obviously, his immaculate taste is the ultimate proof against doppelgängers.

The man on the floor grimaces. It’s the exact same expression Jon just made, if a little more pained. The resemblance is, frankly, very unsettling.

“Look, we _know._ But it’s the end of the world, give us a break,” He mumbles like a rehearsed response and goes back to being completely unresponsive.

Martin frowns. Who’s _we? What?_

Tim laughs again. Tim doesn’t sound like he’s okay. “What the actual fuck.”

Yeah, Martin agrees.

They’re all unsure of what to do with the unconscious copy of their boss so Martin suggests they put him on the cot at the storage room. He doesn’t trust whoever this person is but leaving him on the floor just feels wrong. He can judge him once he wakes up. For now, he’ll stick to being painfully scared. They all are, he thinks. It would be kind of fucked up if they weren’t. 

“Jon?” Martin calls him, worried. He looks like he’s about to pull his hairs out. 

“This isn’t necessarily _supernatural,_ ” He says instead of answering. “There’s a one in a trillion chance of someone looking exactly like you. This could just be one of those incredibly rare cases,” 

Martin rolls his eyes. Apparently, they’re doing this. This man is absolutely ridiculous and Martin can’t believe he wants to kiss him sometimes. 

“Okay. Then how do you explain the door?” Martin entertains him. 

“Yeah, boss, there’s no way it was just _casually_ there all along and none of us noticed,” Tim adds. He hasn’t stopped looking at the man in the cot since he arrived, like he’s searching for something. 

Sasha joins. “It seemed like the door that keeps showing up in statements, the one with all the mazes and—” 

“It can’t be that door. It just. It makes no sense!” Jon insists but Martin can see how he doesn’t believe himself anymore. He’s as confused and scared as the rest of them. 

Tim finally looks away from the man to glare at Jon. He looks like he wants to take him by the shoulders and shake the skepticism out of him. “Neither does your double appearing from, what, an alternate dimension!? On a _Tuesday_!” 

“Not necessarily, but close enough,” Jon says but, no, that’s not Jon. Jon is mutely glaring back at Tim. He couldn’t have said that. “Tim? Is that you?” 

They all immediately turn towards the cot and, like coming back from the dead, the impossible man sits up facing their general direction. His scarred eyes remain closed as he pulls out a pair of plastic heart-shaped sunglasses and slips them on. Martin never thought he’d ever see Jon, or at least someone who looks a lot like Jon, wearing heart-shaped glasses. A part of him thinks maybe this situation is not so bad after all. 

Tim, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to find this as amusing as Martin and immediately gets defensive. “What are you?” He demands. “Why are you here?”

The man huffs a small laugh. It almost sounds melancholic. It’s a weird sound to hear right now. “Can I at least know where I am before I get interrogated?” He says, raising his eyebrows. He sounds like he might be enjoying this, but not in a menacing way. His voice is identical to Jon’s if maybe less… posh. (Stuffy, is what he means) 

“You’re at The Magnus Institute,” Sasha answers. 

“Year?” 

She pauses. “2016,” 

The man sighs and his shoulders sag down with relief. He’s never seen Jon (or someone who looks a lot like Jon) not seem like he’s being held straight by a ruler. Then he frowns and he’s once again the spitting image of Jon. 

“Who are you?” He asks Sasha, which is strange considering he recognized Tim’s voice. 

“Who are _you_?” Jon asks. The man smirks like it’s the funniest thing he’s heard this week. 

“I’m you, from an indefinite time in the future,” He says as he stands. He’s Jon’s same height, too. Which means Jon is finally not the only short person in the room. 

“ _Indefinite!?_ ” Tim exclaims, sounding almost offended at the vagueness of his statement. The man who claims to be Jon From An Indefinite Time In The Future nods with all the seriousness in the world. 

“Indeed,” 

Jon scoffs. He’s done that a couple of times today. “How do I know you’re not lying? You could just be- _pretending_ to be me,” 

“I’m you as much as I am Jonny D’Ville,” He shrugs and Jon tenses up. Martin does not know who Jonny D’Ville is and at this point, he doesn’t even want to ask. 

“Fine,” Jon sneers. “Let’s entertain you’re me from, uh,” 

“An Indefinite Time In The Future,” 

“Right. What are you doing here?” 

The man who claims to be Jon From An Indefinite Time In The Future pauses. “I’m here to prevent your deaths,” He settles for saying. Martin notices he doesn’t seem very certain in his answer which is, to say the least, suspicious as fuck. 

“What.” Jon says. It’s more of a statement than a question. 

“Yours and Tim’s and, um, I’m sorry for asking but who are you again?” He turns to Sasha’s direction. 

Sasha crosses her arms. She’s looking at the man who claims to be Jon From An Indefinite Time In The Future like a scientist would look at a Petri dish. “I’m Sasha James,” 

The man who claims to be Jon From An Indefinite Time In The Future takes in a sharp breath and opens his mouth a few times, as if trying to answer but not being able to find the correct words. “Right,” He ultimately chokes out. After a moment he clears his throat and asks. “And- _Martin_?” 

It’s only now that Martin realizes he hasn’t spoken since the man who claims to be Jon From An Indefinite Time In The Future woke up. The way he says Martin’s name catches him completely off guard, it’s an unbearably fond and familiar tone. He’s never heard Jon refer to him in anything but an annoyed drawl before. “Uh, yes?” He squeaks and the man smiles, soft. 

(Martin’s never seen—) 

“Right,” He says again. “Well I’m here to keep all of you from dying. The Institute is… not a good place. And we can’t afford what happened Before to happen again,” 

There’s that “we” again. How many people is he talking about? Are they also going to be spat out by creepy yellow doors? Martin hopes not. He doesn’t want to see that door ever again. 

“What exactly happened Before?” Sasha asks.

Jon From An Indefinite Time In The Future grimaces. “Bad Things.” 

Martin wonders how he died in this alleged Bad Future.   
  


A couple of days later Jon From An Indefinite Time In The Future (or just Other Jon for short) has made himself home at The Archives. As if, Martin's pretty sure he’s literally living there somewhere. Exactly _where_ remains a mystery for now. Definitely not the cot at storage anymore, not since the first night. He’s sort of taken over The Archives which can be helpful since he’s handled most of the statements since he arrived, but it’s not helpful in the sense he’s absolutely obtuse and seemingly unable to give a straight answer about anything relating to Before, or why The Archives are “not a good place”. He can tell Jon, the one from this timeline, doesn’t trust Other Jon. Martin even caught him trying to hide statements from him at least twice but Other Jon seems to always be able to find them regardless. It’s sort of like watching two cats fighting over the same territory, only that in this case the cats are one and the same. 

And yes, while Martin can’t say he entirely trusts Other Jon either, he also can’t deny he _must_ be Jon with perhaps some differences caused by the inevitable passage of time. They have the exact same mannerisms, the same intonations in the way they speak, same taste in tea and organization habits and the way they both like to spin on any chair with wheels. Both of them have a tendency to tuck pencils in their hair and then immediately forget about them until they run out of pencils (the record so far has been five pencils but with Other Jon’s longer hair he thinks that might be broken soon enough) and share a hatred for anything pop music and neither of them will eat unless reminded to. They both constantly complain about the temperature in The Archives and like to check in with the Assistants at around two in the afternoon. 

But then there is the way Other Jon flinches away from the tape recorders Jon collects like a damn hobby. Where Jon sits up straight like a plank Other Jon slouches down, tired. Other Jon is clumsier, not that regular old Jon is the face of gracefulness, but Martin swears he’s seen Other Jon run into open doors at least twice in the time he’s been around. And there’s always this… melancholy around him. Especially when talking to Tim and Sasha. He imagines it could be related to the whole Preventing Your Deaths deal but he’s not like that with Martin at all. At first, he thought it was because Jon, present or Future, simply doesn’t like him. But that actually turned out to be one of the biggest differences between the two of them. 

“Hey, uh, Jon? I brought you tea,” 

Other Jon looks up in his direction from where he’s sat atop Sasha’s desk. “Oh, thank you.” He says and _smiles._ He has dimples. Martin didn’t know that. He wishes he could see them in Jon’s cheeks, his Jon. 

Other Jon is _nice_ to them. Genuinely so. Especially towards Martin. And it’s so fucking weird.

He hums happily as he takes a sip. Martin feels himself turn red. “You know, I haven’t drunk tea in a very long time,” He says, and Martin has never felt such pity for another human before. 

Other Jon will joke around with them (by them Martin means mostly him and Sasha. He has tried to approach Tim but he’s incredibly apprehensive around Other Jon. It always makes him look sad, but he never seems upset toward Tim). Every time Martin talks to him… look, he knows it sounds ridiculous. And he’s probably just projecting his fondness toward Jon into a very similar version of him who doesn’t hate his guts. But Martin gets the impression that Other Jon turns warm around him in a way he doesn’t with the others. He doesn’t know. Maybe he just really missed the tea. 

“Why is that?” Martin asks though he assumes Other Jon simply forgets to brew himself some once in a while. 

But Other Jon’s face turns grim behind his pink heart-shaped sunglasses. “There wasn’t any left,” 

Well, that’s ominous as fuck. 

“I—” Martin starts but he’s really not sure of what he’s going to say. Thankfully, Other Jon is quick to change the subject. 

“Have you seen that statement, the one of Carlos Vittery?” He asks. 

That’s another thing. 

Other Jon will often ask for statements they haven’t even gotten to yet. They have told him the current date every time he asks, which is at least twice a day, but that doesn’t make him any less disoriented as to what the current happenings in The Institute are. He has a vague idea but is usually slightly off. Martin guesses this is a side effect of the whole Time Travel business. 

“Uh, no. I don’t think we’ve gotten to that one, yet.” 

Other Jon actually sighs, sounding strangely relieved. “Alright. Just, pass it directly to me when you do,” He says, and then almost like an afterthought he adds “Please,” 

Martin doesn’t think he’s ever heard Jon say “please” before. Or “thank you” for that matter. Really, for all the effort Jon puts into his polite accent (and Martin _knows_ he’s faking it a little) the man is not that polite at all. It’s actually sort of satisfying hearing it from Other Jon. 

“‘Course!” Martin says. He really needs to get a hold of himself. Having two Jons around is incredibly fucking confusing. Not to mention the very real possibility Other Jon is just acting friendly in order to catch them off guard when he... does something bad. Or whatever. 

“And, you know, if Elias—” 

“–Asks if we’ve seen you, no we haven’t,” Martin finishes for him. He really doesn’t understand what is Other Jon’s fixation with Elias but he supposes if he were a Time Traveler he wouldn’t want to go around parading his existence to too many people, no matter how inoffensive they are. It’s not like Martin was going to barge into Elias’ office and tell him the news anyway. 

Other Jon smiles, warm and oh so beautiful in a way that makes Martin hurt. “Right, thank you,” 

If only the bastard wasn’t so damn suspicious. 


	2. JON’S SUPERVILLAIN ORIGIN STORY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the comments last chapter, it really did take me by surprise! You’re all lovely !!

Whoever this alleged Time Traveler is he’s _not_ Jon. He would know, as he actually _is_ Jon. 

It’s been exactly one week since this intruder waltzed himself into Jon’s Archive claiming to be him from a time in the future he can’t even specify. The liar won’t even make an effort to actually act like Jon. He feels like he’s being mocked by a reflection in a house of mirrors, cheap glass pretending to be just like him but it is actually warped and stretched in all the wrong places making it into something completely different. The intruder is not Jon, Jon believes to know himself enough to be sure of that. 

He looks ridiculous, stumbling about in Jon’s Archives in those plastic heart-shaped sunglasses. Jon doesn’t wear sunglasses, his eyesight is far too bad for that. Once, he considered getting those glasses that tint themselves when hit by the sun, but he realized with how little time he spent outdoors it would be a waste of money. So what is this intruder hiding behind cheap plastic? He’s suddenly reminded of a hand-me-down copy of Frankenstein he read as a kid, the story of a perfect imitation of a living man with the exception of his dull yellow eyes, all watery and wrong and never, never human. ( _So what is he hiding? What is he hiding?_ ) He’s too loose, like a shoelace getting constantly caught at the heel, the way he sits and speaks and leaves papers behind him like a flat trail leading back home, wherever that is. The impostor seems to think it’s The Archives. It’s not. The Archives are Jon’s, and that impostor is not Jon.

He bets he’s even faking the accent. Sure sounds like it. 

He can’t even get his story straight! Why would he come to prevent Jon’s death when he’s, allegedly, literally right here alive and well all the way from The Future? “Before” as he keeps saying. Are they supposed to assume he’s in danger of dying? Well, he certainly looks the part. Jon has always been wiry but this impostor is rail-thin, he sometimes seems to wobble like he’s being held upright by two twigs seconds away from snapping. He looks as tired as a corpse no matter the time of day and the _scars—_

Jon doesn’t like to think about what the scars mean. Not the old ones marking his entire body. Not the newer ones dragging across his eyes behind the glasses. Jon is not that impostor. He can’t be. He _won’t_ be.

If there’s one thing they could perhaps have in common is that Jon has never been a good liar and clearly, this impostor never learned the art, either. He claims to be here to save them but he’s never even said from _what._ He keeps saying The Institute is Bad but Jon Knew that already. He can feel the relentless stare of _something_ prickling at the back of his neck every time he walks into The Institute. Looking. Judging. Waiting. It’s always been there, even back when he was in Research, but it’s been More since he became Head Archivist. As if the invisible eyes behind his neck multiplied like parasites until he’s being scrutinized under their glare. He should’ve just stayed in Research, he doesn’t know what he’s doing. And clearly, neither does The Impostor. Jon has learned nothing new from this so-called Time Traveler. 

That man isn’t Jon, and he cannot be trusted. The Archive’s been an absolute mess since he arrived. It hasn’t been this bad since Gertrude... retired. It has to be him causing the mess, it must be. Why hinder months of Jon’s work if not because he’s working against him? Against them?

Jon almost feels like he’s been demoted. The impostor has slowly but surely taken over His Archive. He orders Tim, Sasha, and Martin around as if he were their boss. He’s not, Jon is their boss. And the worse part is that they actually do what he says. Tim does it apprehensively, he can tell he doesn’t like The Impostor, either. Which is the normal thing to do when a complete stranger wearing his boss's skin falls out from a creepy yellow door! But he keeps saying something about keeping friends close and “potential enemies” closer. Meanwhile, Sasha calls him “The Time Traveler” with a fascinated gleam in her voice and treats him like an observational experiment. Martin, the fool, seems to be half a day away from making friendship bracelets with the thing. He even brings him tea the same way he makes Jon’s every day in the morning and then again in the afternoon. What’s next, is he going to start giving him the yellow cup with the cat pun, too!? He shouldn’t have expected anything else from someone as naive as Martin. 

He clenches his teeth as he hears them laughing from outside his office. The man can’t possibly be that funny, for goodness sake. 

(Maybe he should leave Jon to be Head Archivist and he can keep being the Head Clown. 

See? Jon can _totally_ be funny, too. The Impostor is not special for making a few witty remarks) 

Jon has tried to siege back control but that damned doppelgänger is _always_ at The Archives. Except for when he’s not, in which case, nobody knows where he goes, but he never leaves for long. No matter where Jon hides the statements he manages to dig them out from whatever nook or cranny he burrowed them in. Jon doesn’t like how he never asks for the statements that record digitally (the Fake ones). It makes him uneasy. He doesn’t like how much this impostor knows about Jon and the things that orbit around him. He even had the _audacity_ to bring up Jonny D’Ville in front of the assistants. Blackmail was what that was. Pure, cruel blackmail. 

“Did Elias–?” He hears _him_ , muffled from the other side of his door, ask once again. He asks about Elias a lot, which is just plain strange. He could understand, hypothetically, why Elias being aware there’s a double of the Head Archivist would be inconvenient. But he’s so _fixated_ on it. Elias is… an okay boss. Not exactly attentive or caring. He doesn’t understand why the impostor seems to be so obsessed with Elias not finding out about him. Whatever, it’s not like Jon was going to tell him, but the whole ordeal is incredibly suspicious. 

“Uh yes. This morning when you were, well, not here. Talked to Jon for a bit about _Archiving and The Importance of Putting Papers Away In Boxes_ ,” Martin finished with an exaggerated accent. 

Was that- was Martin imitating him? He does _not_ sound like that! Just what he needed, the doppelgänger is now openly encouraging mockery toward Jon in his own damn Archives. 

The stranger who is it’s definitely not Jon laughs loudly and Jon despises the way it sounds just like him. Only that Jon doesn’t remember the last time he laughed that openly. 

Martin is not even that funny. 

“You know, we never did get around finishing organizing The Archives. We tried, Before, but we got, _ehh_ , sidetracked.” 

_And That!_ He keeps doing that! Who the hell is “we”? He considered the possibility this impostor could be part of some kind of cult, but so far he’s found nothing. There are several statements making mention of both The Cult of The Lightless Flame and The People’s Church of The Divine Host, both of which seem quite cultish (I mean, it’s in the _name_ of the former. A little too on the nose if you ask Jon), but neither seems to be associated with evil doubles or self-proclaimed Time Travelers. He even tried looking into the tattoo on his right wrist, the thin lines of a compass always pointing slightly east, shifting almost imperceptibly. Maybe it was a symbol of something. Unfortunately, all that pops up are cheesy couple tattoos. Jon would never, absolutely never, get a couples tattoo. Even less one as tacky as a _compass_. 

So he keeps a close eye on The Impostor while maintaining as safe of a distance he can when his space is being invaded. He doesn’t make small talk with him or put up any pretense of friendliness. The Impostor seems aware of how Jon regards him and has the gall to act entertained like Jon was a circus puppy. He’s not a circus puppy. He’s Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist. 

He hears a thump outside his office and Martin gasps. Jon rolls his eyes, did he hit himself against the corner table again? But then Martin calls for Tim and Sasha and well, Jon supposes he could take a look. Grumbling, he wheels himself toward the door and opens it just enough to see what all the fuss is about. Though, he thinks bitterly, with Martin everything is a fuss. 

“He just collapsed?” Sasha asks, looming over The Impostor on the floor. Jon is reminded of the day he arrived one faithful week ago. It is not a memory he looks fondly. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” The Impostor insists weakly. 

Martin frowns. “When was the last time you ate?”

The Impostor pauses. 

“You don’t remember,” Martin says, he’s not asking. 

“It’s been a while since I had to,” He groans as he tries to sit up. Martin quickly leans down to help him. 

Tim scoffs. “What does that even _mean?_ ” God bless Tim for asking actually important questions. That clearly sounded like inhuman behavior. 

Martin shoots him A Look as he helps The Impostor up. “I think we can take our lunch break a bit earlier today,” 

Sasha agrees which means Tim will most definitely be joining. All four of them chat their way to the break room until Jon can’t hear them anymore. He tries to not feel upset by how they didn’t think to invite him. He isn’t even hungry anyway, he says as he munches on the sad granola bar he’s been keeping in his drawer for months. 

He doesn’t have time to waste with lunch. He’s got Archiving to do. 

It’s about an hour before his assistants + the man pretending to be him return to The Archives. During this time Jon occupies himself performing high-priority tasks such as scrolling absentmindedly on his computer and Sulking. Once he hears them come in he peaks from behind his door and watches them disperse. Martin goes into the storage room, The Impostor and Sasha retreat to her desk as they talk about the life expectancy of sea otters (or something) and Tim is about to head to his own until Jon starts gesturing at him. Tim quints weirdly at him but still comes into his office. 

“Hey, boss, is everything alright?” 

Jon closes the door behind them. “No, Tim, _nothing_ is alright.” 

Tim sighs and takes a quick glance at the closed door. “Yeah, guess not,” 

“That-that man out there. I don’t care what he says, he’s lying. He’s _not_ me,” 

Tim curls his lips inwards and hums skeptically. “Well–” 

Oh for fucks sake. “ _Tim_ ,” 

“Look, I’m not saying that- that thing out there is trustworthy. He’s clearly lying about something—” 

“—Everything, probably.” 

“—But he’s, well. Do you remember that statement? The one with the guy who ate notebooks?” 

“Not-Graham, yes, I do recall that statement,” 

“He was nothing like Graham! Physically _or_ personality-wise. And the thing out there looks _just_ like you. If you ignore the whole, you know,” 

Jon crosses his arms and clenches his fists around his cardigan. “The scars? I noticed.” 

“What I’m saying is,” Tim continues. “I don’t think it’s one of- of the Not People or whatever they are called. Whoever he is he’s not here to snatch your identity and wear it like a fur coat,” 

Jon still refuses to believe that man could ever be him but he reserves his complaints. For now. “If hypothetically, he was– you know. Why would he want from us?” 

“Maybe it’s a case of dying a hero or living long enough to become a villain?” Tim entertains. 

Jon stares. “I’m not even going to acknowledge the fact that you just said that to me,” 

As Tim begins to narrate what he probably thinks it’s a completely rational explanation for Jon’s hypothetical eventual descent into villianhood he hears a creaking noise from outside his office. Jon curses internally, he recognizes that noise. 

He can tell so does Tim. “You don’t think–?” 

They both look at each other for a beat before scrambling out of Jon’s office. 

Two and a half inches to the left from where it had been last time stands the same damned yellow door that brought The Impostor to His Archives. Jon winces as static immediately grows on his ears, he can’t tell if it’s coming from the door or rattling inside his skull. He sees The Impostor approach the door slowly with Sasha in tow. Martin is nowhere to be seen. 

“Is it–?” The Impostor crosses his arms and clenches his fists around his flannel. “No.” 

He then knocks on the door. 

After a moment of nothing, Jon suddenly feels nauseous. At first, he suspects it might have been that ill-advised granola bar, but the door is opening and, no, it has nothing to do with the granola bar and all to do with the- the _thing_ emerging from the door. It has to hunch down in order to fit under the bright frame and once he steps out from whatever yellow dimension he came from Jon almost wishes he had stayed behind it. The thing is tall and spaghetti-thin and has a face that makes Jon’s eyes hurt. It looks perfectly normal but if he stares for long enough he could swear the features are moving just slightly as if they were slowly rearranging themselves into a Picasso portrait. No matter how much Jon tries he can’t make out the color of its eyes. It is not like The Impostor, who’s extremely weird and very much impossible but could still be argued to be human depending who you ask. Jon knows it to his core that whatever this is it is not human in the slightest and he shudders with that knowledge. 

“Michael,” The Impostor greets it. Oh great, they’re buddies. 

The thing smiles and it gives Jon the beginnings of a headache. He hears Tim curse under his breath beside him. “Archivist,” It says. 

“I wasn’t expecting to meet you again so soon,” He says. Time Travel mumbo jumbo, Jon imagines. The Picasso wannabe laughs and it makes Jon wince. It echoes across the entire Archives and Sasha takes a tentative step back at the sound of it. 

“Neither was I. But something... weird happened in My Hallways. And ‘weird’ is my nature, but this has never happened before. There was someone in My Hallways, someone who I never showed my Door to. Only that they were not My Hallways and at the same time they were. I was worried something was wrong,” The thing then turns to look straight at Jon and he feels like a moth pinned to a board. There are invisible spiders crawling up his back and he wants to bat them off but he _cannot_ move. “I think I see now,” 

He turns back to The Impostor and Jon sucks in a sharp breath. He didn’t notice when he stopped breathing. “You’re not from Here. That could be a problem,” 

The Impostor smiles but it looks more like he just bit down on a raw lemon. “You and I have similar interests in mind, I believe,” 

The thing, Michael, laughs. “How come?” 

The Imposter pauses. “We can talk in your Hallways,” 

The thing that calls itself Michael shrugs and steps aside though Jon doesn’t actually see his legs move at any point. It is only now as he gestured at the Door that Jon notices his hands. Long and sharp like needles and he wants to get nowhere near them. “After you,” It says and The Impostor willingly walks into whatever yellow dimension is behind the Door like an absolute madman, followed by “Michael”. 

The Door closes on its own and all three of them take a minute or two to just stare. 

“Is it bad if I’m hoping he doesn’t come back out,” Jon mumbles. 

Tim tilts his head as if considering the idea. “I mean,” He says and then doesn’t proceed to elaborate. 

“Guys,” Sasha chides them but still laughs. “You know, he could really be the key to help us figure out what is going on in The Institute,” 

“Sure, if we can get him to speak a sentence that isn't completely vague and ominous,” Tim scoffs. 

“There isn’t some great conspiracy in The Institute. Our only problem is this “Time Traveler” and possibly whatever the hell that was,” Jon says. Jon doesn’t believe himself 

“Oh yeah!” Tim exclaims. “I was wondering which one of us was going to acknowledge fuckass mcdandy yaoi hands first,” 

Jon frowns. “What’s a yaoi?” 

Sasha waves him off. “Don’t worry about it,” 

“Watch Boku No Pico,” Tim tells him. Sasha throws a small pencil sharpener at him which he easily dodges, laughing. 

“Tim, no! Focus!” 

“Right, right. Sorry. But seriously though, what’s so secretive that they have to go to Magic Door Land or whatever to talk about it? And on a more general note: what the hell,” 

“I think we’ve received statements of him before, haven’t we?” 

Jon sighs. “The thing that appears to have all the bones on his hands, yes,” 

“Okay, but will it kill us?” Tim asks. 

The Door opens again with a sharp squeak and only The Impostor comes out. It closes behind him and when Jon blinks it’s gone. 

“Not anymore,” The Impostor says in response to Tim’s question. “Michael will be helping us. He’s an ally, a… friend. Even,” 

Tim laughs tightly. “That is not as reassuring as you to think it is,” 

Jon agrees. He has the feeling none of them are part of the “us” the thing that calls itself Michael agreed to help. 

As he thinks this a completely normal door opens and closes in His Archives. Martin walks out of storage with a pile of papers in hand and stops on his tracks when he takes notice of the tense energy in the room. 

“Um, did I miss something?” Martin asks. 

Jon rolls his eyes. Of course it had to be Martin. 


	3. PLAN #??? (LOST COUNT)

The Plan, as it turns out, is not actually to keep his past self and the rest of the archival staff from dying.

Sure, that’s _part of it,_ overall. But the actual plan is much simpler: Burn Down The Archives. And then, of course, kill Jonah Magnus. They’ve already done it Before, he and Martin. But it had been far too late, and it changed absolutely nothing. That was a long time ago, impossible to tell how long exactly given the lack of comprehensible time in The Eyepocalypse, but it was one of their earliest plans. The first one, actually. If a little bit revised on the way. There’s been a multitude of other plans since them and, obviously, they were all doomed to fail. All of but this one. They might actually get a chance with this one. It hasn’t even been a year since their past selves were transferred into The Archives and thus their connection to Beholding is meek and frail. They won’t be harmed when they burn the whole Institute down for good, and they won’t be harmed when they kill Jonah Magnus again. That had been nothing but a lie, a bluff made to scare them into letting him continue living on and on and on. If it all goes according to plan their past selves won’t even have to come into direct contact with the supernatural, their presences excluded. They’ll be able to just move on and avoid all the pain and deep psychological trauma Jonah’s narcissistic little stunt put them through. Jon won’t ever become a monster, Martin won’t be touched by The Lonely or any other entities that want to take a bite out of him.

Tim and Sasha won’t die.

It’s all very clean cut, he thinks. So far he’s been keeping The Archival Staff away from any statements that might put them in danger either through their content or the curiosity it might spike. When Martin arrives then they’ll finally burn this rotten, rotten place to the ground. 

Oh, Martin. 

Even though Jon no longer has any connection to Beholding (he made sure of that. He cut the umbilical cord out before he could be fully born into the monster Jonah sculpted out of him. He, in simple terms, made Daisy gauge his eyes out. Very fucking painful, but quite effective. Jon hadn’t felt any pain in a while, a part of him was so _glad_ to feel the burn of every single bleeding nerve) he still cannot travel through Helen’s Doorway, at least not alongside Martin. Technicalities and such. She had tried to explain exactly why but without the Knowledge of Beholding he could no longer understand The Spiral’s nonsense. So he just smiled and nodded and kissed Martin goodbye until his lips grew numb. He’s not alone in The Future, Helen enthusiastically offered to keep him company until he’s able to finally join Jon. He can’t say he will ever entirely trust Helen but she’s only tried to kill him one (1) time which makes her the second person with the least murder attempts toward him since the world ended. The first one is Martin who has tried to kill him a grand total of zero (0) times, bless his heart.

Still, the knowledge (lowercase. All knowledge now is lowercase. A small part of Jon, one that whispers from the darkest nooks and crannies of his mind, misses The Beholding. God, does it miss it. It cries and begs for the entire scoop of the world’s Knowledge, for being able to Hear and See and _Feel_ all the suffering of humanity and have it Feed him. Jon doesn’t acknowledge that part. Every whine is ignored and crushed under his heel until it is reminded that Jon’s eye sockets are hollow and they will remain hollow until he dies like humans do) that Martin is stuck on an entirely different Timeline makes Jon incredibly nervous. They have spent little to no time apart since the world ended, just what happens when all of their friends want to kill Jon and everyone who doesn’t want to kill Jon wants to kill Martin, he can’t remember the last time they were separated for this long. He feels like he’s about to start crawling up the goddamn walls but he has to keep himself composed, he knows the Archival staff already think he’s a loony, so he mopes in private and traces the lines of his tattoo when he’s feeling particularly upset.

His past self isn’t wrong. He hasn’t heard him say anything but he can tell he’s thinking it. It’s himself, after all, even if his past self doesn’t seem to agree. He and Martin had gotten the tattoos right after burning The Institute for the first time. They had been drunk on cheap wine they found on what was left of the break room and it turns out Helen’s knifey hands are actually quite good at DIY tattoos. So he got a compass on his right wrist and Martin has an anchor on his left. They’re weird and have a tendency to move when people are looking but that’s expected from The Spiral. The tattoos are absolutely horrid and the cheesiest thing he and Martin have ever done and they lowkey gross Jon out and he loves them. 

At least there’s Martin’s past self to keep him company. Only that that occasionally gets confusing as fuck. 

He can easily differentiate their voices, that’s not the problem. The Martin from this timeline has a constant nervous air around him and still hesitates with every word, making it distinct from the careless confidence his Martin speaks with. Nevertheless, they’re still somewhat the same person. The same patchwork of traits with a few switched patches worn away and replaced with time. And occasionally that leads to Jon forgetting who (or when) exactly he’s talking to. He’s lost count of the times he’s had to bite his tongue to not let a “dear” or even a joking “light of my life” slip out. A few times he’s unconsciously reached for his hand before realizing what he’s doing. One time he thought of kissing him, which was just weird. He might be Martin, but he’s not his Martin, and those fleeting thoughts feel wrong. But at least he can still enjoy the tea. 

Holy fucking shit, the _tea._

Jon cannot remember the last time he drank tea. A few times he tricked himself into trying some during The Eyepocalipse but that was very much Not-Tea. The first time Past Martin brought him a cup was the day he discovered he could still cry without eyes. He knew on a surface level he missed Martin’s tea, but there’s only so much you can miss something you don’t remember. But now he knows. And he cherishes those two cups of tea a day like they’re the most precious gift ever given. 

Jon didn’t think he would ever drink Martin’s tea again. 

But tea is not the only thing. The end of the world put most human functions to a stop. They couldn’t feel hunger, thirst, or fatigue, and even if they could there was nowhere to enjoy those things. He’d been so used to living like that he’d completely forgotten he had to, like, eat, when he traveled to the past. He almost collapsed once because he completely forgot to eat or drink anything but tea for three days straight and his body is too weak to put up with that bullshit. It’s been A Struggle to remember to eat. And Statement numbers. And dates. Especially dates. He hasn’t taken any meds in over two years and a whole Eyepocalipse and being so suddenly reintroduced to the concept of tangible time is definitely not doing his brain any favors. 

He also doesn’t have any money. As it turns out traveling back in time didn’t magically put him back on the payroll. He lived for a few days through stealing Jonah’s lunch, which was mostly Caesar salads for some damned reason, until Martin took notice and started bringing him lunch every day. Jon will be more than happy if he never has to eat a caesar salad ever again. Past, Present, Future, Jon will never get over how kind Martin is, even if he does think he’s a loony. He’s good at hiding it alright, definitely better than his past self who hasn’t made any efforts to hide his dislike of Jon’s presence, but he can tell he doesn’t fully trust him. Jon doesn’t mind. As long as he’s okay it doesn’t matter what he thinks of him. 

And then there’s the matter of sleeping. Like food, it is, like, a thing he has to do now to function. God, Jon loves sleeping so much. He really took it for granted his entire life. He even has taken a few _naps_. Jon hasn’t taken naps since, well. Since Scotland. 

Jon doesn’t dream. Not nightmares, not other people’s statements. It’s hours upon hours of nothing and Jon couldn’t be more grateful. He’s tired of the screams, he just wants silence. 

(It was such a relief, when Daisy blinded him, to no longer have the world's suffering unceasingly screaming at his ear) 

It's been fun, honestly, being back. And what a joy that is. Martin is lovely and Jon can’t imagine how he didn’t notice sooner. His past self is, well, an asshole. Definitely an asshole, more than he remembered. Especially toward Martin. He must be the luckiest bastard in the world for Martin to still choose him after being so damn infuriating for years. So he tries to compensate by keeping him company. Tim is, well. Tim doesn’t trust him and is not about to make any attempts at polite conversation. It hurts, but given Tim’s doppelgänger related trauma it was to be expected. He’s happy to be able to hear him laugh with the others. He doesn’t know when is the last time he heard Tim laugh. 

And then there’s Sasha. 

Not being able to recognize her voice even though he listened to the old tapes hurt. But now he’s just happy to be able to get to know her again. She’s such a bright, curious person, so full of _life_. Life that got stolen but- no. Jon won’t let that happen again. And he won’t let Tim die, either. They’ll be fine. He swears they’ll be fine. 

He just wishes that he knew what she looks like. 

(There’s a few things Jon wishes he could see. The night sky, for example. He wishes he could look at the stars once again. But the pitch black hollow is infinitely better than the sight of a thousand eyes gazing back at him from the hell that had settled itself atop the heavens) 

He does know she’s taller than him, unlike Not-Sasha who had been distinctly shorter. It’s a bit humiliating, finding out the only person he knows shorter than him is Melanie, but nothing he can’t survive. A part of him wishes he could bring it up with her, but he has a feeling that would lead to another murder attempt. Bother. 

He knows how it sounds, but he doesn’t resent his friends for trying to kill him a couple times. At one point it just became the most logical way to try and end The Eyepocalipse after so many failed attempts. He even thought of just doing the deed himself, get it over with. But Martin was there every single time to stop him. He doesn’t know if he should be thankful. 

He supposes he should be as he ultimately did end up here. In The Archives before everything goes terribly wrong looking for a statement like a normal person with a normal job. 

Though looking for specific statements is an absolute nightmare when you’re blind and The Archives are swimming in loose papers and your past self is absolutely conspiring against you. Moving through The Archives in general is manageable. Even after so long he still remembers the place like the back of his hand, like an extension of his own body. But he lost his cane (and by cane he really means a long stick he found on a Hunt Domain) somewhere in Helen’s hallways and has gained a couple bruises from bumping into shit. He really needs to get a cane. Actual sunglasses, too, while he’s at it. The pink heart-shaped sunglasses were a gift from Melanie the last time he saw her and she didn’t try to kill him. Apparently, she has a whole stock of them, some kind of inner joke between her and Georgie. 

He sighs and runs his hand through his hair when he realizes he lost the Carlos Vittery statement. Again. 

“Are you okay?” He hears Martin ask and he jumps a little. He hadn’t known Martin was there. 

“Fine, fine, just- misplaced a statement,” Says and smiles weakly, trying to appease Martin. 

“If you don’t mind me asking, what do you need statements for?” Martin questions. Jon wishes he could tell him everything he wanted to know but it’s better if they don’t. Safer. 

Jon bites the inside of his cheek, thinking of what to say. “It’s just, you know, part of–” 

“–The Plan to Keep You Guys From Dying,” Martin finishes for him. “Yeah, so you’ve said,” 

“Well, there you have it!” He says with forced cheeriness. If they don’t know about Carlos Vittery his past self wont unintentionally send Martin off to get trapped in his apartment for weeks. They _can’t_ know. 

He hears an intake of breath which Jon interprets as Martin being about to protest but he gets interrupted by his own voice coming from the Head Archivist office. 

“ _Martin!_ Martin I’ve been calling you for five minutes,” He hadn’t. “What are you doing!?” 

Martin sighs, tired. “Guess I gotta go,” 

“I’m sorry for him,” He days with a joking smile. “He’s just– well, I think you know,” 

“Yeah, I do. Thanks, uh, Jon,” 

Fifteen minutes later Martin leaves for the day. 

Jon briefly abandons his useless search for The Carlos Vittery statement to pay himself a visit. He doesn’t knock, he doesn’t like the sound of knocking, before he opens the door to The Head Archivist office. 

He hears the faint sound of the office chair’s wheels. “You,” His past self says like it’s an accusation. Jon tried really hard not to laugh. 

“You know,” He says, casually, which is bound to annoy his past self. “You should be nicer to Martin,” 

He scoffs. “You’re going to tell me now how to do my job?” 

“That's not what I meant and you know it,” 

“I–” His past self huffs. “It’s none of your business how I treat my assistants. 

Jon shrugs and leaves. He knows his past self will be thinking about it. On his way to the storage room he hears light footsteps he believes he’s come to recognize. 

“Sasha,” He greets her. 

“Oh, hi Future Jon. You were talking to Present You?” 

“Yes, he’s infuriating as always,” 

She snorts. “This is another level of self-hatred, I swear. You’re both ridiculous, you know?” 

Jon does know. “Hey, do you happen to know where the Carlos Vittery statement is?” 

She pauses, thinking. “No, sorry. I can help you look for it, though,” 

He smiles. God, he missed her. “That would actually be great, thank you,” 

Sasha mock shudders. “No wonder Present Jon doesn’t believe you’re him when you go around having _manners_ and such 

“Oh, yes, the horror,”

Martin doesn’t come to work the next day. Or the day after that. It’s not until the third day Jon catches on. 

He runs into the Head Archivist office, hitting himself with the _damn corner table_ in the hurry. “Hey, me,” 

He hears himself sigh. “What do you–” 

“Do you know where Martin has been for the last few days!?” 

His past self hesitates. “He’s home sick. Stomach virus, apparently,” 

Shit, shit, _shit!_

“The statement, the Carlos Vittery statement. Did you tell him to look into it!?” 

“Yes? I don’t see how that—” 

He stumbles out of the office, accidentally bumping into Tim on his way out, and runs to get the only fire extinguisher on this entire stupid building before hurrying out of The Institute. He curses, hoping he’ll be able to get a cab because he’s _not_ keen on figuring out how to get to the metro with no eyeballs. 

After this, he’s going to kill his own damn past self before any entities can get to him. 


	4. MARTIN’S BAD HAIR DYE

Tim had almost forgotten why he began working at The Institute. Almost. 

When a messed up double of his boss popped up from a magical yellow door and proceeded to faint in the middle of his workplace, Tim’s first thought was “what the fuck”. His second thought was Danny. Danny’s smile, his jokes, his horrible scrambled eggs with ketchup. The thing that was distinctly Not-Danny but still looked so much like him. As if someone had grabbed his brother and made him into a Spot The 7 Differences game in a cheap coloring book. So of course he was skeptical of the thing claiming to be Jon from a bullshit time in the future. It couldn’t be him, it just made no sense. Only that it did. For days Tim saw Martin and Sasha getting cozy with the thing, the lunatics. He knew they both thought it was a liar, but they also believed it was _Jon_ . And much as his boss has made a hobby of enthusiastically denying it, Tim can’t ignore it either. They’re not the same person, not _really._ But are you ever the same person you were five years ago? Ten? Twenty? The doppelgänger or whatever it is is not _their_ Jon, but from observing him exists in The Archives he couldn’t deny it was, most likely, _a_ Jon. The thing that took his brother had something so inherently _wrong_ about. This guy was, at least on a surface level, human. And don’t get Tim wrong, the double is fucking _weird,_ just not inhumanly so. He certainly looks like he’s been through it. Tim thinks that’s what scares Jon the most.

Not lying about being Jon doesn’t mean he can’t be lying about something else, though. Because he definitely is, they just can’t tell what exactly. Mostly because the guy doesn’t say much in the first place. Every time they ask, well, _anything_ , he ungracefully avoids answering by spewing the same tale about wanting to prevent their earthy demise and then awkwardly changing the subject. He didn’t even have the decency to tell them _how_ they died. Tim thought about that a lot. He never actually asked the man, didn’t feel comfortable talking to whatever it was, but he knew he wasn’t getting any answers. At least not like that. 

The entire Archival Staff has varying degrees of distrust toward the doppelgänger, ranging from Martin’s tentative hesitance to Sasha’s watchful curiosity. Jon is the most concerned about the situation which makes sense as it is his own damn future self causing ruckus. He’s convinced his double is evil, which, fair. And absolutely doesn’t acknowledge what that means for him. Because as far as Jon is aware, he and the time traveler are not at all the same person and never were. He supposes, ethnically speaking, that he should trust Jon on that one. After all, nobody knows Jon better than Jon. But the resemblance is just so uncanny Tim simply cannot fully separate them. It feels right for them to be sort-of the same person. It’s not at all like what happened to Danny. Even though a part of him wishes it was, it would be so much easier if it was.

He still doesn’t want to get killed in his sleep by someone with Jon’s face, though, what a fucking nightmare would that be. So he discusses the possibilities with Jon. Sasha prefers the term “conspiring” but hey, tomayto tomahto. Plus, it’s always fun to bother Jon a bit. That, he and the doppelgänger did seem to have in common. Tim was on his way to do exactly that when the star of the movie, the man they were about to conspire about, bolts out of the original Jon’s office faster than he ever knew Jon could run, bumping into his shoulder in the midst of the hurry. He stares a for bit, and then shrugs. What a weird fucking guy. 

“Hey, boss,” He greets a confused looking Jon.

“I- uh. Yes. Hello, Tim,” He stutters, briefly staring at the open door behind Tim before redirecting his attention to him.

“Any progress on the, ya know?”

“The doppelgänger,”

“Well, yes. And your whole—”

“ _No_ , Tim I haven’t come up with a supervillain backstory that would warrant me traveling back in time to terrorize myself,” He sighs, annoyed. Classic Jon. Evil Jon doesn’t do that often, at least not towards them. Most of his prime annoyed sighs seem to be directed at himself or the world at large. Valid.

Tim snaps his finger. “You know who is good at these kinds of things?”

“Tim.”

“ _Martin!_ ”

“Tim, don’t–”

“I’ll be right back with him,”

“Tim, he’s not even he—”

Tim closes the door behind him and goes searching for Martin. He may not actually have a degree in parapsychology but he _does_ write poetry. That makes him, like, an expert on these things. Probably. He also hasn’t seen Martin in about three days and he’s really been wondering what he’s been up to. Something about being sick, Jon said? Or something. He looks for him at his desk but finds it empty, then he tries the break room thinking Martin might be making some tea but the only person there is Sasha grabbing some nutritional morning vodka, so he checks the storage room next.

He opens the old, squeaky door and _bingo_ . Behind it stands a disheveled looking Martin. Tim’s first thought is that Martin did not have a good three days sick leave, he’s almost tempted to tell him it’s okay to take one more day off. He looks rumpled and painfully tired. But he still stands straight and it’s then that Tim notices Martin not slightly hunched down like he tends to do. It’s the first time Tim realizes Martin is like, _tall_ tall. The frame of his glasses are a little cracked, which, yikes. And then his hair is, 

Hold on. 

Did Martin get a hair dye during his sick leave? That is _golden_. 

It’s not very good, to be honest, a messy line of silver hair going from his bangs and seemingly extending all the way to the back. But he’s not about to say anything. If Martin wants to look like an anime character that is entirely his own decision and Tim is happy for him regardless. 

“Marto! Just the man I was looking for!” 

Martin blinks at him, staring, before smiling. Tim doesn’t think he’s seen Martin smile like this since he introduced him to red raspberry leaf tea. “Hey Tim,” He says warmly. 

“So I was talking to Jon about Evil Jon–” 

“Evil Jon?” He laughs. 

He nods in mock seriousness. “Yes, that’s how we’re calling him now, keep up. So I was asking Jon about his evil backstory because, of course, something must’ve happened for Jon to go from perpetually annoyed to villain mastermind, right?”

Martin hums. “I don’t know if I would call, uh, _Evil Jon_ a villain mastermind,” 

“Oh, come on, he’s totally hiding some huge conspiracy. And then he keeps doing the thing? Where he talks in plural? Jon thinks he might be in a cult. I don’t know, I think it could be something else,” 

“Like a circus?” 

Okay, what the fuck. 

Martin huffs a laugh. “You don’t need to worry about that, Tim. It’s just me,” 

And _that_ is when Tim notices the thin, pale scar across Martin’s neck, almost identical to Evil Jon’s own. There’s no way he could’ve gotten that in the last three days and healed already, no matter how wild his sick leave was. 

He doesn’t think this Martin was on a sick leave. 

“You’re not Martin, are you?” 

He sighs, thinking. “I am Martin. Just, not the one you know. Not really,” 

“Let me guess, you’re from an indefinite time in the future?” Tim asks. He feels like he’s going to get a headache. 

Mar— _Not_ -Martin. Possibly Evil Martin, snorts. “It’s that how he said it? I mean, he’s not _wrong_ ,” 

“I- what does that even mean!? It’s so fucking omnious!” 

“It means that we’re from the future, but we don’t know exactly _when_. It’s- a lot of things have happened since now, Tim,” 

“That literally explains absolutely nothing, thanks,” 

“Guys?” Sasha says and when Tim turns he sees her peeking from behind the door. “Oh, hey, Martin you’re back,” 

Martin smiles but it’s quite awkward. That is a more familiar sight. “I, yes? I guess. I’m sorry, who are you? 

Sasha blinks and Tim thinks he sees the beginnings of a smile in her face. “No shit,” She says and fully walks into the storage. 

She sticks her hand out like it’s a very casual business meeting. “Sasha James at your service. Are you another time traveler?” 

Martin gasps and Tim thinks his eyes might be tearing up a little. “Oh my god. Sasha, you’re not white!?” 

“What?” 

“Wait a second!” Tim interrupts. “Isn’t Martin, like, dead in the future!?” 

Possibly Evil Martin dims down at that. “No, only you two,” 

Tim doesn’t know if that’s better or worse. Better, he decides, Martin not dying is definitely better. Even if he looks like he just went through a meat tenderizer. 

“How much, uh, _Evil Jon,_ ” He barely gets through the word without laughing. “Tell you guys?” 

“Like, nothing,” 

“Yeah, pretty much nothing,” 

“Something, something, he’s gonna keep us from dying, something, something,” 

Possibly Evil Martin looks like he’s fighting the temptation to facepalm. “Right, right,” He sighs. “We should probably sit down,” 

They settle in the break room (Possibly Evil Martin makes them tea. He looks worryingly happy as he makes tea. It tastes _just_ like Martin’s) when Jon decides to make an appearance. He’s making that frown that indicates he’s about to ask about whatever tomfoolery is taking place but he pauses. Tim knows why, there’s a quite obvious elephant in the room right now. 

“No.” Is the first thing Jon says. Possibly Evil Martin smiles with infinite amusement. 

“Woah, a _cardigan_. Haven’t seen you in one of those in a while,” Possibly Evil Martin exclaims like he just saw a puppy do a cool trick. Jon pulls the cardigan tighter around himself as if to ward off wandering eyes. 

“So there’s another one,” He grumbles. “How many is it going to be? The whole Institute?” 

Possibly Evil Martin shrugs casually. “Just me and Jon,” 

Jon’s eye twitches as he probably mentally goes off about the doppelgänger not being Jon. 

“He was about to tell us how we died,” Sasha exclaims. She looks way too excited to know how she kicked the bucket. 

“Kind of, yes,” Possibly Evil Martin agrees. 

Jon huffs. “Alright” He mumbles and sits down between Tim and Sasha, as far away from Possibly Evil Martin as possible. 

“Right,” He sighs. “Sasha, you know- well. Okay, you guys remember Amy Patel’s statement?” 

Tim does not, in fact, remember Amy Patel’s statement,” 

“Not-Graham,” Jon supplies gravely. _That_ Tim does recognize. 

“Exactly. The Not-Them, they kill people and replace them. Their pictures, legal records, online presence, all of it is switched out. But a few things slip off each time. That’s- that’s how we knew,” 

“Shit,” Sasha whispers. Tim agrees. He wants to take her hand and squeeze it but she’s too far. Goddamnit, Jon. “So I got eaten by my Evil double,” 

“That’s, um, definitely a way to put it,” 

“What about me?” Tim asks. 

“You– I– uhhhhhh,” Possibly Evil Martin struggles. “You kinda blew yourself up?” 

“He what!?” Sasha exclaims. 

Tim is absolutely _not_ about to unpack that right now. “Hey, where is Evil Jon?” 

He hears the corner table fall to the floor in the background. Ah, he's back. 

He walks into the break room with a deeply sleep-deprived looking Martin on tow. 

“We have a problem,” He says. Great, just what they needed right now. A problem. 

Possibly Evil Martin assesses the situation for about a second before going “Oh, Worm?” 

Immediately Evil Jon turns to Possibly Evil Martin’s direction and lights up like a fucking Christmas tree. Tim is frankly a little bit scared of the sight of him genuinely smiling. He doesn’t think he’s ever witnessed Jon do that before. 

“You’re here,” He breathes

Possibly Evil Martin beams. “I’m here,” 

Weirdly enough, Tim feels like he’s the one intruding and not the other way around. 

“Oh, what the fuck,” The Martin from this timeline curses. Way too many shocking things are happening at once, Tim needs a _break_. 

“Wait, what happened to Martin?” Sasha asks. “Like, the one from this timeline– we need to figure something out with the names,” 

Martin and Evil Jon clumsily explain how Martin encountered Jane fucking Prentiss, local worm queen, on Carlos Vittery’s basement and proceeded to be chased by an army of disgusting little worms. Then she paid him a three day long visit until Evil Jon showed up like a deranged knight in shining fire extinguisher with the help of what might have been a cab or a socially anxious college student and started firing blindly until Jane Prentiss and her classroom of worms began screaming in CO2 allergy. It wasn’t nearly enough to kill her but still sufficient to get Martin out of the apartment and run all the way to The Institute before she had time to recover. And now they’re here, tired and sweaty and probably in need of some therapy. 

“Maybe I should make a statement, have it on record,” Martin suggests. 

“I don’t think that’s the best idea,” Both Time Travelers say at the same time. A little spooky, not gonna lie. 

Evil Jon clears his throat. “Now that Martin is in good hands I have to go. I would stay but I have some business to discuss with, uh, my Martin,” 

Possibly Evil Martin stands up in a heartbeat and rushes besides Evil Jon. “Oh, yes, yes. Absolutely.” He gently nudges Evil Jon on the side and offers him his arm. “Shall we?” 

He takes his arm. “We shall,” And then they leave together. 

Everyone from this timeline stares at each other for a beat. 

“They’re totally conspiring,” Tim says. 

“Oh, absolutely,”

”For sure,” 

“I think Martin should stay in The Archives for the time being, he can use Jon’s cot in storage,” Sasha suggests. 

“It’s not my– I don’t know if that’s a good idea, Sasha. My doppelgänger has been staying somewhere in My Archives and it’s likely so will Martin’s. I don’t trust them alone with him ,” 

Martin flushes. “I- uh, I don’t—” 

“What if they eat him like the Not-Them ate Sasha?” 

Sasha rolls her eyes at Tim. “They’re not the same thing, you know that. Besides, they seem to know what they’re doing, at least worm-wise,” 

“I think I’d rather stay here,” Martin says. “I don’t- my apartment is not safe right now,” 

Jon sighs. “Fine. Just, be careful with the time Travelers,” 

Martin gives a flustered little smile. “No, Yeah, of course. Thanks,” 

No, Tim is _not_ dealing with pinning on top of everything else. He gives Sasha A Look. He needs some nutritious morning vodka.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can come scream at me on Tumblr at @orcas-havenochill where I occasionally post fanart of my own damn fic


	5. THE INHERENT HOMOEROTICISM OF STEALING FROM MASS CORPORATIONS

Martin closes the squeaky door of the storage room and is immediately shoved against a shelf. He’s not complaining. 

“Hey there,” He mumbles as he’s instantly embraced by the bony mess of a man that is Jon. He holds him tightly and squeezes so hard Martin is half-worried he might bust a lung. Just how he likes it. He wraps his arms around Jon’s middle and lifts him off the ground just slightly so he can bury his face in his hair without having to bend over and _breathes_ in the smell of ink and old paper and a bit of Eyepocalipse. He’s home. 

“Welcome back,” Jon says muffled against Martin’s neck.

They stay like that for a while until Martin is beginning to get genuinely concerned his ribs might crack and puts Jon back on the ground. At least one of them needs a complete set of ribs. Jon huffs like it’s still too soon and Martin internally agrees. It’s been too long since they spend this much time apart. Years, probably, but there’s really no way to tell at the end of the world. Last time he left Jon alone— well. Let’s just say it’s in both of their best interests to stick together. Survival in numbers and all that, and it doesn’t hurt to have a hand to hold when constantly facing the suffering of the entire world. 

Jon’s arms move from his torso up and around his neck where he hoists himself up on his tiptoes to press his lips against Martin’s. His lips taste faintly of tea. Martin smiles. 

“I’ve been told you’re apparently evil now. Care to share?” He whispers after a beat. Warm air puffs from Jon’s nose in what could’ve maybe been an amused laugh.

“Let’s just say they didn’t appreciate the lack of information,” He says, shrugging.

“You don’t say!?” Martin exclaims sarcastically, earning himself a pinch on the side. “I know we agreed to not tell them about, like, the end of the fucking world. But they can still know some things,”

Jon hides his face in Martin’s chest, more out of caprice than any genuine embarrassment. “What did you tell them?” 

Martin feels Jon take his wrist with one hand and begin to absentmindedly trace the lines of his tattoo, an anchor that sways gently side to side if you pay close enough attention. Martin doesn’t think he fully realizes he’s doing it. “Oh, you know. Just how they died, the usual,” He says.

Jon snorts. “No, of course,”

Martin cups the side of Jon’s face and guides him up. He missed his stupid face, pink heart-shaped glasses and everything.

Wait a minute.

“Jon,”

“Martin-Dear,” 

“How come you still have Melanie’s glasses?”

Jon purses his lips guiltily.

“Jon, where is your cane?”

“You mean the stick?” Jon asks, the smartass. He’s going to be the death of Martin.

“Yes, Jon, _the stick_ ,”

“I, uh, lost it?” He says tentatively.

“I- Jon! And you still haven’t gotten another one?”

“I haven’t had time!”

“You’re going to get yourself killed,”

He’s certain that if Jon has any eyes he’d be rolling them. “It’s just a few bruises,”

“ _Just a_ – fine, it’s fine. We’ll just, uh, go shopping,” He decides.

Jon pauses. “God, I haven’t been shopping in ages,”

Neither has Martin, for obvious reasons. “All the more reason to go,”

Jon sighs. “Alright, we can make a trip. And then we burn The Institute,”

Martin couldn’t agree more. “To a fucking crisp,

Martin hasn’t been to a JMarts store in ages. This almost feels like a fever dream. The ride there had been absolutely wild in of itself, both of them barely remembered how to navigate the metro and relearning had been An Experience. He had even been shoved by an angry shoulder and been told to _“watch it!”._ Absolutely magical. Back before the world became a high-rating restaurant for fear gods Martin actually used to come by this JMarts quite often. The scent of sanitizer and spoiled milk almost brings him to tears. A part of him still hasn’t processed that he’s back in London, the _actual_ London. Not the warped version of it that was left in The Eyepocalipse. It’s even more unbelievable that Jon is right there with him. He hoped and hoped and hoped for this but never let himself think he’d actually get it. Martin Blackwood is not that lucky. But they have another chance to do it right. They are going to save the fucking world. 

But first, groceries. 

They make a beeline for the pharmacy section and grab a white cane for Jon. Martin sees him smile. He hopes he’s not thinking of hitting anyone with it. 

“This is way better than the stick,” Jon states as he “tests it” around the store. Thankfully no employees have told them anything. Yet. 

They also get food because, as Jon so kindly reminded Martin, avoiding getting hit in crucial places is not the only thing they have to do to stay alive anymore. They also have to eat now. How absolutely novel. Martin found himself in front of a huge selection of teas from every brand and flavor. Real, honest-to-god tea and not whatever the fuck Not-Tea is. It’s not tea, that’s for certain. He felt like he was standing by the gates of Heaven. Martin ended up grabbing one of each. They allow themselves some cup noodles and candy bars, Martin thinks they deserve it after everything. While they’re at it they also stop for some clothes that don’t smell like Eyepocalipse and shoes that are not falling apart on their soles. Jon tells him he’s been camping out at The Tunnels under The Institute so they make a small detour to grab some pillows and blankets. _Can’t save the world with a sore back,_ a pillow would say if Martin still did embroidery (He sneaks in a brand new kit into the cart). 

“Jon, oh my god,” He gasps as he looks at the other side of the aisle. “That’s a _dog_ ,” 

“I had forgotten there were normal versions of those,” 

“Do you think she’d let me pet it?” 

“Probably not,” 

“I would literally murder someone to pet a dog right now,” 

Jon struggles to keep a straight face. “Let’s keep going,” 

“Jon, you’re killing me!” 

They round up the store one more time and end up dumping in two shirts that say “I’m He’s” and “He’m I’s” because, fuck it, why not. They are in 2016 again, what better time to go wild? They then add two mugs because they’re beginning to run scarce in The Archives and according to Jon if he were to use the yellow mug with the cat pun his past self would emerge from his office with the sole purpose of dropkicking him back to the future. Martin fully believes him. They also grab a frankly unholy amount of fire extinguishers for worm prevention. They plan to finish The Institute off before Jane Prentiss has a chance to attack but the worms will begin periodically showing up any day now and it’s better to be safe than deeply, tragically sorry. 

“Past me is probably going to be staying at The Archives,” Martin notes as he dumps yet another fire extinguisher into the cart. “We’ll have to find a way to get him out of there when we burn the place down,” 

Jon makes a mock thoughtful face. “We could send him out on a date with past me,” 

Martin bursts out laughing. He can’t imagine how a date with Jon so early in their relationship would’ve been like. Jon would have probably spent the entire time pointing out health code violations in whatever restaurant they decided to meet up and Martin would’ve been stupidly charmed. Though, as he looks at Jon asking an underpaid teenager about the expiration date of the fire extinguishers, he thinks it probably wouldn’t go that much different even now. 

Finally, they head to the check-out area with the cart filled to the brim. And _that’s_ when they remember they don’t have any money. As it turns out, they’re unfortunately not getting paid for trying to destroy The Magnus Institute. 

“Jon,” Martin starts, but Jon is already climbing inside the cart. 

“Ready when you are,” He says squished between the mountain of tea boxes. 

Martin gets a firm grip on the cart’s handles and makes a run for the door. 

Now that they’re probably permanently banned from that JMarts and would definitely have the police immediately called on them if they dared to show their faces around ever again, they stop to have lunch. They park the stolen shopping cart beside a park bench and sit down to enjoy milkless cereal straight from the box. Martin hasn’t felt this happy in ages. He watches the streams of people passing through the park, unbothered by supernatural danger as they go through their mundane lives. He’s suddenly reminded of a poem he wrote a long time ago, “The threads of people walking, living, loving” he had written. They’re why they’re doing this. 

Martin doesn’t say any of this. 

“I spy with my little eye,” He says instead. 

“Oh fuck off,” 

They sneak back into The Institute through The Tunnels and make their way to Jon’s “base” (as he keeps calling it) and get lost only about three and a half times because Jurgen fucking Leitner is once again someone they have to deal with. The maze of mismatched Hallways brings Martin memories. Not good ones, not really. But of simpler times, where the stakes were to not get eaten by worms or kidnapped by clowns instead of bringing the world back from being transformed into a perpetual fear dimension. The shitty shopping cart is already giving out by the time they make it to the mess of stolen statements Jon calls a base. 

“How positively homey,” He says as he unpacks the blankets. He’s _not_ sleeping on the bare floor. Sorry to Jurgen Leitner but he’s different. “Reminds me of that one time we stayed at a cave in The Buried,” 

Jon shudders. “Please never mention that bloody cave again,” 

Settling some blankets ultimately evolves into building a blanket fort in the tunnels. They’re no Robert Smirke but Martin believes the end result is pretty acceptable. Anyway, they don’t plan on staying here for much longer. This is only temporary. But they can afford some comfort, as a treat. Comfort didn’t exist in The Eyepocalipse. Martin shoves aside a little mound of statements and for the first time in such a long time, he lays down and _breathes._

“Your past self must be going insane,” He comments as Jon lays down half on top of him. There’s a ridiculous amount of stolen statements down here. 

Jon snorts. “Oh, absolutely. I would be surprised that he hasn’t tried to throttle me out of The Archives if he weren’t literally me,” 

Martin hums contemplatively. “I don’t know, you definitely seemed like the type to throttle people in your free time every once in a while,” 

“Come off it, you know it was all a facade,” 

“Or was it?” 

“You wound me, Martin-Dear,”

Martin huffs a small laugh and absentmindedly starts playing with Jon’s hair. He can’t remember the last time he and Jon could just _be_ , for one moment, with no looming threat nipping at their shadows. 

“I would die to take a shower,” Is what he says. Jon groans. 

“I would end the world again for a shower right now,” He claims and sends Martin straight into a laughing fit. 

He knows, even after all this time, that Jon still feels guilty about contributing to the end of the world as they knew it. It’s something he’ll always carry with him, Martin thinks. But it’s definitely not as bad as it used to be if he can make jokes about it. 

“Warm water? I don’t know her anymore,” 

“ _Water_ , period.” 

“God, or a bath,” 

Martin laughs so hard he could cry. 

They loll against each other as they wind down, breathless. A comfortable silence settles itself into the conversation and Martin listens to the sound of their breathing, no screams corrupting the sound from the background. 

“I missed them,” Jon says after a short while. 

Martin sniffles. He feels an invisible lump swelling up his throat. He keeps it down. He doesn’t want to ruin this by crying. “I had forgotten it could be like this,” Before everything went wrong. Before they stopped being friends. Happy. He missed seeing them be _happy_. 

“I..” Jon starts. 

“Hm?” 

“What does she look like?” Sasha. 

Martin pauses for half a beat. “Well, for starters she’s not actually white,” 

“ _No!?_ ” Jon gasps. 

“I know, right?” 

“Who would’ve thought? The real agenda of the Not-Them is whitewashing,” 

“The horror!” 

“I knew there was a reason The Stranger was my least favorite entity,” 

“Wasn’t it because it is the polar opposite of Beholding? 

“Hush, you,” 

He lowers his hand from Jon’s hair to the planes of his face. He traces the lines of his eyebrows and down to the slope of his nose, where he bumps against his sunglasses. 

Wait. 

“We forgot to get you another pair of sunglasses,” He deadpans, but Jon doesn’t seem phased. 

“We’ll have another chance to grab some,” 

He’s right. They’ll have another chance. 


	6. AN OBSERVATION OF WHAT BECAME OF JON AND MARTIN

It’s not until the next day that the Time Travelers return from scheming and, apparently, shopping.

They were already at The Institute by the time Martin woke up in his new home at the storage room (which reinforces the theory that they must be living somewhere in there, even if they haven’t been able to pinpoint where). Martin looked pretty embarrassed when she arrived later that morning, which is not exactly an unusual look on him, but still spiked curiosity in Sasha. When she asked though, Martin’s only answer was hiding his increasingly pink face behind his hands and mumbling something about being an idiot. Needless to say, that wasn’t very informative, calling himself an idiot is sort of Martin’s standard response. Which is actually pretty concerning now that she thinks about it. She’ll put a pin on it.

And then she sees them and, well, she sort of feels like an idiot, too.

The Time Travelers stand arm in arm beside a bookshelf seemingly discussing a statement that none of the staff will probably ever see again, another tragic loss for Jon, and Future Martin smiles when she comes into the room. He always lights up at the sight of her and Tim. She doesn’t know how to feel about it.

“Morning, Sasha,” He greets her, and Future Jon perks up at the sound of her name.

“Sasha!” He turns towards her and smiles. It’s then that Sasha notices the white cane.

The first thing in her mind is “where did he get a cane?” because it is no secret that being a Time Traveler apparently doesn’t bring any income. The second thing in her mind is _“oh”._

She smiles and says absolutely nothing about it. That sure explains a few things.

Throughout the rest of the day, she can’t shake this new tidbit of information. Sure, Future Jon has apparently been blind this entire time, that’s fine! Only that it’s not, because that is _Jon._ She can see traces of Jon all over him in the way he walks, how he talks, his often unnoticed sense of humor, and his strong opinions on American spellings including but not limited to “color”. He _is_ Jon, but changed. It’s inevitable, it’s Life. But what the fuck could’ve happened for the Jon she knows now to end up like the Jon who came to visit from the future to allegedly keep them from dying? 

How did Jon lose his sight?

That’s not the only surprising change. If Sasha were being entirely honest and cataloging Future Jon’s quirks from the most to the least surprising, blindness would only be in the second spot, rivaled only by his relationship with Future Martin.

It is absolutely fucking bizarre. 

Future Martin as a whole is another entirely new list of surprises in of himself. Just like with Jon, Sasha has no problem seeing how this man is also the Martin Blackwood she’s familiar with. At the same time, she never thought he’d see Martin walk into rooms like he owns the place and get little anchors tattooed on his wrist. He has such a confident aura around him that if he were to say “oh, yes, I’ve actually had tea with The Queen” she’d actually consider believing him. Those are completely opposite vibes from the jumpy jumble of nerves that is the Martin from this timeline. A part of Sasha feels guilty for underestimating Martin all this time. She’s always thought he’s an amazing guy, just, a bit of a clutz sometimes. And especially hopeless when it comes to Jon.

Ah, yes, back to _that._

How the fuck.

Future Jon doesn’t need to see in order to look at Future Martin like he hung the entire solar system up in the sky. It’s seen clearly in every touch, in every word, in every little weird inner joke they have. Now _that_ completely took her out of the loop, sweep-the-rug-under- her-feet-and-fall-on-her-ass unexpected. It definitely explains Future Jon’s remarkable fondness toward the Martin of this timeline and explains absolutely nothing else. They’re _close_ , like proper close, like attached to the goddamn hip close. And it could definitely be a whole We The Sole Survivors thing but, no. There’s more to the story than that. It is extremely jarring when she hears Jon scolding Martin for breathing the wrong way around him and then turns around to see their future selves leaning into each other like their personal space melted into one shared bubble. 

Though, ever since Martin returned from Worm Leave Sasha’s been noticing some of that care in Jon. Little bits, mostly shown through fretting and harassing Elias to replace the fire system with CO2 during his increasingly frequent visits to The Archives, but it’s _there_.

Jon, Tim, and even Martin keep racking their brains trying to figure out what The Time Travelers are up to. But Sasha just wants to know what _happened?_ Call her a fool but whatever they have schemed, she’s sure it won’t harm them.

She’s tried to wrangle answers out of Future Martin who seems more willing to share than Future Jon, but she quickly learned there’s only so much he’s actually willing to share, the secretive fuckers. Sasha actually caught him carefully cutting and taping off every little eye picture or drawing in The Archives. When she asked him about it he just said something about it making him feel safe and continued vandalizing away. It makes sense, Martin can definitely be paranoid at times, but she still doesn’t fully believe him. 

It’s hard to know what to trust and what to not when so little reliable information is available. 

But as of right now the Time Travelers are nowhere in sight. Instead, she and Tim are blessed with the sight of Melanie King stomping out of The Archives. Melanie wasn’t happy when she was sprayed with a fire extinguisher immediately upon arrival, and she definitely didn’t find peace of mind in Jon’s office. 

Sasha grabs the tally.

Tim whistles. “How many people has Jon pissed off this month? Five?”

“Seven,” Sasha adds a line. “It’s the Time Travelers, it has him on edge. Or, more than usual,”

“Yeah, no shit. I would be too if I had a spooky doppelganger running around probably planning my death,”

Sasha stands up to look for something in storage, Tim follows her without a second thought.

“Wasn’t us not dying the whole point of going back in time?”

Tim shrugs. “Reverse psychology, I say,”

She chuckles. “I don’t think that’s how reverse psychology works,”

“Agree to disagree,”

“That’s not–”

“Where do you think they are now?” Tim asks leaning against a shelf.

She had been wondering that. “Besides a dark alleyways where they murder innocents to support their immortal lifestyle?”

Tim waves his finger around in the air pretentiously. “You say that but who’s to say that isn’t exactly what they’re doing?”

Where the hell was that file? God, if Jon is right about one thing it’s that The Archives has been an absolute mess since the Time Travelers showed up. “Why don’t you ask Martin? He’s been spending an awful lot of time with them,”

“Exactly that, Sasha! What if they are planning to sacrifice him to their evil immortal god!?”

“I don’t think they would do something _that_ obvious,”

“Yes, because they’re the absolute kings of subtlety,”

Sasha thinks back to The Time Travelers shamelessly stealing statements and cutting eyes out from the little magazine stack Tim brought as a joke during their second week in The Archives. “Fair,” She says. “But even if they’d tried anything Martin would surely take them out with his trusty corkscrew,” 

Tim chuckles. Then, softer, he says “They do act like Jon and Martin, in their own weird way,”

Sasha sighs. “Yeah,”

A lull settles itself in the storage room where Sasha rummages through the shelves and Tim looks at her and she pretends she can’t tell Tim is looking at her.

Then, “Did you know he is–”

Sasha blows a breath. “Holy shit, no! I feel so dumb,”

Tim snorts. “You and all of us. Yikes, that’s awkward,”

“What do you think happened to him?”

Tim grimaces. “I’m not sure I want to know,”

That is also fair.

Sasha eventually finds what she’s looking for and they leave the storage together. As if they materialized from nowhere at the mention of their names like some odd version of Beetlejuice, The Time Travelers are in The Archives when they return. Future Martin sits on Martin’s desk chair and Future Jon, like a heathen, sits atop the desk. Sasha wonders how many desks Jon would jump on if he wasn’t trying to maintain a facade of professionalism that doesn’t exist.

“Hello, Future Jon, Future Martin,” Sasha greets them.

“Hey,” Tim follows.

“Sasha, Tim, hello! Did, uh, my past self take any live statements today?” Future Jon asks.

“Yeah, M–”

“Melanie King,” They both finish at the same time. She’ll have to give it to Tim, that is a bit spooky.

Tim frowns. “Yes, do you know her?”

Future Jon smirks. “Let’s just say we end up having a few things in common,” He says and he and Future Martin start laughing. Whatever that is about. 

It’s strange, the way they communicate, the jokes they make. It’s like they have their own little language. Sasha supposes in a way, they do.

A door squeaks behind her and for a moment Sasha flinches before realizing it’s a perfectly normal door. Jon emerges from his office, and by “emerges” Sasha means he opens the door halfway through and peaks out like the doorframe can protect him from The Time Travelers.

“What’s all the noise about? This is an Archive, not a theme park,” Jon grumbles until his gaze falls on The Time Travelers. “You’re back.” He states.

Future Martin gives him a shit-eating grin. “Missed us?”

“Not at all,” Jon mumbles and quickly retreats back into his office, slamming the door as he does.

Future Martin has a habit of teasing Jon which has definitely been the highlight of Sasha’s day. She wonders if this is his way of payback for how he and Jon’s relationship began. Whatever it is it, seems to amuse Future Jon infinitely.

“You’re evil,” He remarks and then turns towards the footsteps coming from the breakroom.

“Hullu, uh, Jon. Hello, umm.. me?” Greets Martin on his way out of the breakroom balancing six cups of tea together.

“Wait, I got you,” Future Martin says and rushes to take half of the cups from Martin’s hands. He sighs in relief.

“Thanks,”

Future Martin gives Future Jon and Tim their respective cups without even having to think about which was who’s. He then takes a sip of his own cup and hums happily.

“Hmm, did you use the—?”

“Oh, yeah. I just thought, you know,”

“No, I totally see it,”

Unlike the Jons, Martin and his future self seem to actually _understand_ each other. It’s almost like they read each other’s mind, which she assumes they sort of do, only that not really. Knowing Martin it could’ve really gone either way but she’s glad he didn’t start an unspoken war with his double like a certain Head Archivist. 

After briefly discussing tea and giving Sasha a perfectly made cup, Martin tentatively knocks on Jon’s door and opens it without waiting for a response.

“Hey, uh, I made tea? If you want some,” Sasha hears Martin say.

She can’t hear Jon’s response, but Martin deflates at whatever he says. He still walks toward his desk and stammers his way as he delivers him his tea like every single day. Then the door is closed again, and Martin sighs.

“You know,” Starts Future Jon. “He won’t say it, but your tea is the best one he’s ever had,” He says and Future Martin nods along with him in agreement.

“Oh,” Martin blushes bright red and Sasha is almost worried about his circulation with so much blood pooled in his face. “I- uhhh, _aaa_ , t-thank you,” Martin smiles and then flees back to the breakroom.

God, Sasha only hopes Martin doesn’t also develop a crush on Future Jon. There’s only so much pining she can handle and that wound border on ridiculous.

She goes to sit on her desk but realizes, with all the talk of the Time Travelers, she forgot to grab the stapler in storage. Reluctantly she groans her way back into the room and successfully retrieves the damned thing. Sasha turns to leave but realizes that the door she used to walk in isn’t the same one standing in front of her. This door is yellow.

Sasha thinks about her options for a second. Sasha knocks


	7. MARTIN MAKES SOME TEA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The unnecessary italics and parenthesis really popped off in this one

Martin is beginning to understand why Jon feels so... weird. Around his future self. 

It’s Something, you know. When you wake up in your workplace’s storage room because you were harassed by some kind of worm queen and her little army of maggots for three days and it’s still pretty early in the morning, early enough that neither of the Jons should be around because you already got sort of used to that little tidbit of weirdness, so you decide to make yourself a nice cup of herbal mango sweet hibiscus tea to keep your hands busy so they won’t start scratching down your arms till the skin starts peeling off because you still feel like worms are crawling under your flesh and it’s been kind of stressful lately so you allow yourself an extra spoonful of sugar because you know what, you deserve it, _okay_ , so you take a sip and slowly you can feel yourself stop shaking and then you turn around and there’s your own fucking face staring right back at you. Only they’re a little older and, well, everything you’ve ever wanted to be. 

He’s confident, he’s cool in a might-be-a-criminal sort of way (not that Martin isn’t technically a criminal, but, you know), he has an actual presence that is noticed when he exists within a room, and most importantly people _listen_ to him. _His Jon_ listens to him.

And that makes Martin so goddamn _jealous!_

Martin knows he shouldn’t be, he supposes he should be hopeful or something. Like, hey, turns out he actually had it in him all along! But all he sees is how much of a fuck up he is. Why can’t he be like him? What exactly is he doing _wrong?_ Sometimes he wants to go up to him and ask him how did he do it, how did he convince his Jon that he isn’t completely incompetent after all. Not even that, his Jon genuinely seems to like him? He laughs at all of his jokes, and actively seeks his opinion and treats it like it’s important! He treats the Other Martin like _he’s_ important. Martin has always wanted to be important to someone. Anyone, really. 

He doesn’t ask, of course. How pathetic would that be. 

He probably shouldn’t complain. Jon _has_ been relatively nicer to him since The Worms™ happened. For Jon standards, at least. If only his own standards weren’t so pitifully low. 

Martin’s been spending a lot of time with The Time Travelers late during the night, late after Jon has left The Archives (he’s been staying longer and longer every day and Martin doesn’t know if it’s just the workaholic in him or that he doesn’t want to leave Martin alone with the Time Travelers. He allows himself to be idealistic enough to consider the second option) and he can see how close they are, it’s absolutely surreal. He feels like he’s peaking into a very bizarre, fever induced fantasy from the darkest corners of his hopeful little heart. And it hurts. Because he wants, he wants, _he wants_ and all he’s ever gotten is scraps.

He also noticed the way they talk about Tim and Sasha, especially now that Tim has tentatively begun exchanging a few sentences a day with them. He can’t begin to imagine what it would be like to lose both of them. So he doesn’t! Or at least, he tries his hardest to not. That’s what they’re here for, right? To keep them both alive? 

Martin feels a guilt within him for something that hasn’t even happened, will never happen anymore. How could he lose them? But he supposes he’s making up for it now, from the future, with Other Jon.

(Is that why they’re so close? Did Other Jon just run out of options? He really wants to ask, but how pathetic would that be.) 

It is nice, though. To have someone who understands him. Even if that someone is literally just himself.

(Wait, that’s actually kind of depressing.)

Moving on.

It is currently Very Late and Martin just finished his routine worm check rounds a few two to seven times and aggressively sprayed any squirmy little thing that had the misfortune to be found with the wrath of fire extinguishers. As usual, he places said fire extinguisher right beside the cot in the storage (for safety reasons, obviously) and heads to the break room to make himself some tea. There are a few accidents, one chipped mug and a few spills, but eventually his hands still just enough to make himself a fucking cup. He considers making some for The Time Travelers, too, but finding them is always pretty hit or miss at this time of the night. They’re probably hiding away, scheming evil plans and laughing at each other’s jokes and saying things like “Martin, I really appreciate you”. Absolutely vile. Martin decides they can survive without tea. Other Martin can probably make it better than him, anyway, with whatever magical tea-making technology he has from The Future. 

Other Jon always enjoys his tea, though. 

His mental debate is cut short by a loud crash echoing from outside the breakroom. Martin flinches and drops the precious tea he spent blood, sweat, and tears on (literally), ceramic and all its contents spilling into the sink or falling down to the chilly ground. His hands are back to trembling uncontrollably ( _stop shaking stop shaking stop shaking_ ) as he frantically reaches inside the cabinets for one of the smaller fire extinguishers he left there days ago. 

_It has to be Jane Prentiss_ Martin thinks as he inches closer toward the noise. He really doesn’t want to come any closer. _I’m done for. I’m going to die alone._

It is not, in fact, Jane Prentiss. 

As Martin leans against a wall like it will take pity on him and allow him to melt into it’s dull, ugly paint, he forces his ringing ears to listen beyond the thundering of heart. He can’t hear any of the squelching and squirming that he became so familiar with during his stay at the Worm Hotel (terrible service; zero out of five stars). Instead, he hears what he instantly recognizes as Other Jon’s voice (It's gotten easier to immediately differentiate between the two of them. Simply take note of how fake and stuffy the accent seems, if it’s just below a six out of ten, it’s Other Jon) and his own bickering like an old married couple. 

Martin banishes that thought quicker than he can repress his childhood memories. 

He wants to collapse against the wall and sleep against it for months, joint pain be damned. It’s been such a long day, and he’s been so, so scared the entire time. But he still calmly puts back the extinguisher where he found it, resolves to clean up his stupid mess soon, and slaps on his best smile as he walks toward the voices. 

“No, wait, to the left. To the left!” 

“Martin-Dear, I am _blind!_ ” 

“I- yes, Jon, I know that! I was there when Daisy clawed your eyeballs out, that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be able to differentiate between left and right!” 

The Archives are dark and musty as they usually are regardless of what is the time of day. Loose papers are left on top of every surface, a flimsy light flickers weakly on the roof as it attempts uselessly to light up the room, and two grown men stand in the middle of it all struggling to carry a table. It’s dark wood and has carved a spiraling web-like pattern swirling towards it’s middle where there’s a small square hole for some reason. Martin vaguely recognizes it as the table from the Not-Them statements. He distinctly recognizes it as the table who allegedly ate Sasha. A few days ago, Tim and Sasha caught him up with the new information blessedly granted by his future self while he was being held hostage by Jane Prentiss. According to him, Sasha got chomped on by her actually evil double and Tim… blew himself up? Martin found that pretty concerning but he wasn’t sure tapping Tim on the shoulder and going “Good morning! Do you have any plans of, in fact, blowing yourself up any time soon?” would be the best approach. 

Instead of saying any of this, Martin asks “When did that get here?” 

Other Jon flinches and drops the table again. “ _Ow!_ Like, right now,” He winces. 

“What are you going to do with it? Isn’t this table that… you know,” He can’t bring himself to say it out loud as ridiculous as it sounds. 

Other Jon hesitates and Other Martin shoots him A Look he can’t actually see and says “ _Jon_ ,” like it’s a warning. 

Other Jon sighs deeply like someone is forcing him to eat his veggies and reluctantly tells him “We’re destroying it. For good,” 

Martin’s shoulders sag with relief and he realizes he had been standing as tense as a wire. 

“Oh, okay,’’ He sighs. “That’s good, right?” 

“Yep.” 

Other Jon leans awkwardly against the table and Other Martin puts his hands behind his back where Martin knows he’s wriggling his fingers together. They look in his direction with tight smiles and impatient feet. 

_Ah,_ Martin realizes. _They’re waiting for me to leave._

His own smile stretches almost painfully across his cheeks. “Oh, well” He laughs stupidly. “Good luck with that! I’ll just, um, go back to making tea,” 

Martin won’t be going back to making tea. 

He goes back to the kitchen where he completely ignores the pieces of broken mug strewn all over the place and just stands there, _totally making tea, for sure_. He listens to their clumsy footsteps and waits until they’re muffled by walls and distance enough that he would not be remotely visible to them if he were to come out right now, which is precisely what he does. The Archives are back to the empty husk of a basement they are, like there hasn’t been a person here in decades. 

But The Head Archivist’s office door is open. 

Martin carefully makes his way toward the open door, having long learned how to move quietly when needed. And yet he accidentally kicks something small and a little heavy with his bare feet and winces. Metal. He curses to himself and crouches down, blindly beginning to search for whatever he just stepped on in this terribly lit room. After a few seconds, his hands land on a small rectangle and bring it closer to his face in order to actually see it. 

It’s a lighter. With a spider web design not dissimilar from the one in the table. A package deal? He pockets it and resolves to give it to The Time Travelers later. Maybe. 

He walks into The Head Archivist’s office and very quickly notices the actual, honest-to-god open trap door with stone stairs that lead down and down into thick, pitch-black darkness. A little hard to miss. Martin frowns, shocked. But mostly confused. Has this just casually been there the entire time? Does _Jon_ know about the secret spooky trap door in his own office? Martin stares at the dark descent for about a second or two and with a reckless intake of breath, he lights up the lighter and starts making his way down the steep stairs. The floor is not any less cold than the wooden planks of The Institute. 

Martin immediately decides he doesn’t like this place. He goes on. 

The stairs lead down to what seems like a system of tunnels. It’s dark, obviously. But this darkness doesn’t feel natural. Martin can feel it wrap around him like a claustrophobic blanket. Like it’s trying to swallow him alive. The meager light of the lighter barely illuminates his own fingertips, but he can hear two sets of footsteps scuffling around the stone passageways and he follows. He wonders if Elias is aware of these tunnels or if they’re a secret even to him. How long have they been down here? Martin doesn’t like the idea of this pitch-black labyrinth being right under their feet all along. He shudders and wraps an arm around himself. He really should’ve grabbed a jacket before stalking a pair of time travelers down a spooky basement under a basement. And some pants, too. 

At first, he thinks it might just be his overactive imagination. It wouldn’t be the first time his brain pulls something like that. But after a few minutes of blindly following the echo of footsteps, the sound begins to mix with gross squelching movements. _Worms_ . Fuck, Martin thought he was all finished with worms for today. But _no,_ god forbid Martin Blackwood have nice things. He wants to run. He wants to hide. He wants to step on every single wiggling shape and squish it under his heels. But he’s very much barefoot, and he doesn’t have a fire extinguisher with him, and he’s scared that if he turns back now he’ll get lost. So he chokes back the tears and keeps walking. 

Voices begin to echo their way down to Martin and as he’s rounding yet another corner his eyes are blinded by the light of a torch. It doesn’t reach very far, but it’s been so dark and Martin can’t tell for how long he’s been walking. The Time Traveler's faces are just barely light up so that Martin can see them sigh with relief as they unceremoniously drop the table to the floor. Martin flinches. _That’s the table that ate Sasha,_ he keeps thinking. _That’s the table that ate Sasha._

“Heavy piece of shit,” Jon groans. 

“How much do you think the average Not-Them weighs? Like, on their non-evil-double state,” 

“I- huh. The same as a very big mannequin?” 

Other Martin snorts and reaches down for a jerry can on the floor. He throws the cap somewhere when he opens it and starts pouring petrol onto the table where it pools on the spidery crevices and that weird square at the center. 

“W- crap. Where’s the lighter?” 

Other Jon pats his pockets like he’s searching for his keys and not a source of ignition. “Must’ve fallen on the way. It’s okay, I still have the original one,” 

“ _Really?_ ” 

He shrugs as he picks it from his shirt pocket. “You never know when it’ll be useful,” 

Martin knows what’s going to happen before the table goes up in flames. 

What he doesn’t expect is the howling scream it gives out as it burns. Martin almost drops his own lit lighter in order to cover his ears but he’d really rather not end up like the Not-Them. It’s painful to listen, it’s jarring, and it is most definitely not a human sound. 

Other Jon smiles. “Feels good to kill it a second time,” 

A second time? Really? 

Other Martin shrugs. “The first time was more fun,” 

“Oh shut it,” 

_“Ceaseless watcher,_ ” He mocks in an exaggerated British accent just like Martin does when he imitates Jon. “ _Turn your evil, all-seeing gaze upon this motherfucker!_ ” 

“That’s not even how it went,’’ 

“You’re just mad you can’t stare at people to death anymore,” 

Other Jon swats at him and Other Martin laughs. 

Are they joking? They have to be joking. They make weird out of context inner jokes all the time. It just- it wouldn't make sense otherwise. It wouldn’t. 

“Do you think Elias has caught wind of us yet?” Other Martin asks after a pause. 

“No, I don’t think so. As long as we finish this up quickly we’ll be fine,” Other Jon says. The table is a deep ashy black now. “Leitner managed to stay out of his radar for years, we’ll be fine,” He repeats. 

“Stupid idiot motherfucking Jurgen Leitner,” 

Martin’s eyes are as wide with saucers and he can’t even sputter in disbelief. _The_ Jurgen Leitner!? He’s alive? And they _know_ him? 

“Yes,” He agrees. “If we mess up and Elias finds us, I really don’t think I could resist punching him on his smug face,” 

“I call dibs,” Other Martin calls. 

Other Jon scoffs. “That’s not fair, you already punched him last time!” 

They _punched_ Elias Bouchard!? _He_ punched Elias? Martin’s head is absolutely spinning. 

“And I’d do it again,” He claims. “Had to break his nose at least once before we killed him,” 

Okay, let’s amend that previous statement. 

They _killed_ Elias Bouchard!? As in murder. As in the crime. As if taking their creepy useless boss’ life. 

It is cold in the tunnels and Martin feels the heat of the fire on his face and he can feel sweat trickling down his neck and how his knuckles grip the lighter so tightly they pale white. He begins stepping away. He can figure out how to make it back to The Institute alone, he needs to leave. 

Martin feels like he’s heard far too much. 


	8. EVERYONE BUT JON IS INSANE

Jon is not, in fact, trying to compress the entire Archives into his office actually, thank you very much, _Martin_. 

It’s just that it’s much easier to keep track of his statements if he can see them at all times. If they’re always with him, they don’t get stolen by fake doppelgangers. Sure, he can’t _actually_ fit every single statement in his office, but he can certainly try.

Not to mention, he’s not entirely convinced Martin has his best interests in mind. He spends more time with the doppelgangers than any sane person would, and that’s not even accounting for what they could be plotting at night when nobody else is around. He’s been fussing over Jon more than usual lately, (which he had thought impossible but every day brings a brand new, unpleasant surprise) asking how he’s feeling and increasing his daily cups of tea from two to three. Is Martin trying to gain more frequent access to his office to steal his statements? Is he trying to extract information from him? No sir, not under his damn fucking guard. The statements stay with him or god help him he will lose his mind.

Maybe he should— _No._ No, no. (no) He’s been over this. He has to trust his assistants, he _needs_ to. His initial strategy of ignoring the many obviously wrong things happening within the Institute completely backfired when Martin ended up sequestered in his apartment for three days because of him. His main priority should be to keep his assistants safe, and that includes trusting Martin Blackwood wherever he likes it or not.

And it’s not like he isn’t aware of how much of a bad time Martin’s been having. He looks like he barely gets a pinch of sleep a night, tiredly dragging his feet across his archives and yawning his way through statements when he isn’t hunting worms down with fire extinguishers. His eye bags could almost rival Jon’s which is truly a feat to accomplish and lately the color has drained away from his pretty cheeks.

( _Uh_ , _I mean,_ )

Point is, he knows Martin has been having a rough time. But that doesn’t erase the fact that he’s acting awfully suspiciously as of late.

And then there’s the Sasha situation which is another whole other ordeal in of itself.

She seems to be acting like herself for the most part, except for how she’s been leaving the Institute at, like, a normal hour. Even _early,_ at times, which none of them have done for months. He knows it sounds ridiculous but Jon can just _tell_ Sasha’s hiding something. He’s not delusional, he asked Tim about it and he seems to agree that it’s unusual. Tim also doesn’t think there’s anything inherently bad about it but that isn’t the _point_.

So Jon has been tentatively keeping an eye on the both of them, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t _trust_ them, alright.

And then Tim caught him going through Martin’s stuff.

“Seriously, Boss?” He had asked, equal parts concerned and irritated. 

“Look,” Jon began, frantically searching for an excuse that might make his actions seem slightly more reasonable.

“I know the whole Spooky Time Traveler Situation has got you on edge but this is _not_ the way to go about it. I mean, have you ever even spoken to any of them? _Actually_ spoken?”

“I don’t need to,” He grumbles. Even if he wanted to, they’d just mock him, anyway. The man claiming to be him is a liar, and the man pretending to be Martin? An absolutely phony, it’s honestly offensive that he thinks Jon to be foolish enough to believe he could ever be Martin when the two of them have nothing in common. Sure, they both talk with their hands and have a tendency to ramble and their tea tastes exactly the same and they both put on the same stuffy voice to mock Jon but those flimsy technicalities aside they are _nothing_ alike, Jon swears. If only his assistants could _see_ it. So, no, he doesn’t need to talk to them. All he’d get out of it would be vague answers and jabs at his choice of cardigans. He doesn’t need to deal with that. Cardigans, turns out, are both comfortable and practical, thank you. 

The next day he finds out about Tim and Sasha’s list. 

“This has got to be the weirdest one out of the bunch,” Tim laughs as he adds it to their List of Inner, Out of Context Jokes From The Future, which keeps track of the number of (annoying) inner, out of context jokes the alleged time travelers make every single, god-awful day that nobody understands but the two of them. For all the suspicion and doubt Tim initially had toward the doppelgangers he seems to be getting along with them _famously_ lately, it’s like everyone but Jon has lost their minds. He frowns and Tim and Sasha make jokes as his alleged future self waxes Shakespeare like he’s at The Globe Theatre. 

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?” He drones at Martin’s doppelganger. 

“Jon, fuck off, no!” He says but still laughs like Shakespeare is _the_ most hilarious thing he’s ever heard since an indefinite time in the future. 

“Thou art more lovely and more temperate,” 

Martin, the real one, grimaces beside him. “God, I hate Shakespeare,” 

Jon scoffs. Of course he would. It may sound ridiculous out of his doppelganger's mouth but Sonnet 18 is actually quite lovely and, contrary to popular belief, very gay. Not that he should expect Martin to be able to appreciate it. 

He doesn’t bother saying this. Instead, he sulks as Sasha edges his doppelganger on. “What’s the next line, Jon!?” 

“Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, He exclaims, taking Not-Martin’s hands in his probably just to further spite him. At the same time, Jon finishes the line under his breath. 

_‘Jon’_ Sasha and Tim and Martin keep calling the doppelganger. But he isn’t Jon. Jon is right here, and he really wants them to stop trying to turn his archives into some kind of circus. He wishes they’d stop with all the goddamn jokes, _especially_ the blind jokes. And, look, he’s not trying to dictate how other people should cope with their blindness or anything but it’s just sort of bad taste and. And they’re _Jon’s eyes_ , okay. Well, not _his_ eyes, he supposes. But also, yes, in a way? But no. It had been… something. When it turned out the reason behind the heart-shaped glasses wasn’t purely cosmetic. He isn’t Jon, he isn’t, _he isn’t,_ but that is still his face, his voice, his eyes that no longer work. If they are even there anymore. A part of him feels like they aren’t. 

The whole thing just makes him uncomfortable, alright. He doesn’t want to hear about it. 

(It makes him shudder, to think of hollow eye sockets in his face.) 

With all these dramatics and tea and Shakespeare, his assistants have become far too comfortable with the time travelers. They’re playing right into their game. How is any of this tomfoolery going to keep Tim and Sasha alive? 

(And he doesn’t know why Tim and Sasha keep laughing With them. It’s not like they know what they’re going on about and his interpretation of the sonnet is not even that amusing. Even Jon could do better. And no, Not-Martin’s opinion does _not_ count) 

“Want to join? I know you know this one,” Not-Jon asks him. 

Jon’s eye twitches. He needs them _out_ of his Archives. 

Before they try to rope him into another line he leaves to search for Lawrence Mortimer’s statement. He’s a busy, busy man, he has no time for this nonsense. 

Unlike them, he won’t fail to keep his assistants safe. 

He can’t find Lawrence Mortimer’s statement anywhere. 

He searched in the storage, in the break room, inside his office, asked all of his assistants about it, he even told _Rosie_ to keep an eye out for it. But it’s gone. Nowhere to be found. Bye-bye. 

He refuses to believe he lost yet another statement to the doppelgangers just yet so he double and triple checks just in case. Before he knows it he’s turned his archives upside down and Tim and Sasha have long left the Institute. It seems like he and Martin have finally found a common ground in sleep deficiency because he feels so very tired and, honestly, it won’t hurt anyone if he sits down for a second on the couch inside the break room. Just a short rest, he won’t even close his eyes…

When Jon opens his eyes again he’s immediately disoriented by his surroundings before realizing he is, in fact, still at the Institute. It must be past midnight at this point and Jon is genuinely debating whenever is it even worth it going back to his apartment when he hears a noise he recognizes as coming distinctly from his office. Half-asleep he stumbles out of the lumpy couch and races his way into his office. ( _The statements! The statements!_ ) They’re taking his statements, goddamnit, couldn’t he fall asleep at his own desk like a normal overworked person? He bumps into the corner table which he’s _really_ considering just throwing away at this point and desperately flings his door open. 

The first thing he notices is the giant trapdoor on his floor. The second is Martin fucking Blackwood looming over it, equipped with at least three torches and a fire extinguisher. 

“I knew it!” He accuses. “I knew you were working with them, I—” 

He gets cut off by Martin aggressively shushing him. “God, Jon, what are you going on about? You’re going to get us caught!” He whispers. 

“ _Excuse me?_ ” 

Martin turns on a torch and throws another one at Jon, who just barely catches it, before beginning to make his way down the stone stairs. Jon stands there, slack-jawed, with no idea of how to proceed. 

“Are you coming?” Martin’s voice echoes. 

Resigned, Jon sighs, turns on his torch, and follows Martin. This isn’t even the third weirdest thing that’s occurred this week, it might as well just happen. 

“Martin,” He starts when he catches up with him. The stairs seem to lead down to a system of… _tunnels?_ There are tunnels below the Institute? Under his own damn office? And he didn’t even know about it? 

“Hm?” 

“What are we doing?” 

“Oh! Right, right. So, um, the other day I followed the time travelers down here. I think this is where they’ve been staying? _Somewhere_ in here, at least. I don’t know, I haven’t found where exactly. Uh, I’ve been trying to see if I can find where they’re keeping all the statements, but the tunnels can get pretty confusing, so I’ve been trying to map the whole thing out but it’s like. I don’t know, maybe it’s just me, but I think the tunnels.. change? Maybe, I don’t know. Oh, be careful,” 

Martin sprays a huddle of worms right in front of Jon’s feet and he realizes he had been staring at Martin the entire time instead of looking ahead. 

“There’s a lot of worms down here,” He explains. 

He frowns. “And you still keep coming?” 

“I- yeah. I have to,” 

Oh. “Do Tim and Sasha know?” 

Martin sighs. “No. I. I wanted to at least find some evidence first before dragging all of you guys down here,” 

Jon remembers him saying a similar thing when researching the Carlos Vittery statement. 

He clears his throat after a beat. “What was it that you said about the tunnels changing?” 

Martin perks up again. “Right, so I’ve been trying to map the tunnels like every night. But I swear they’re never the same! I- okay this might sound a bit insane,” 

“More than secret magical tunnels under the Institute?” 

Martin snorts and Jon almost trips on his feet. 

“When I first followed the time travelers down here, they said something about Jurgen Leitner,” 

Jon’s eyebrows migrate to his hairline. “The stupid idiot motherfucker?” 

“That’s the one. I think he might be down here like the time travelers. And maybe he’s got something to do with the magic tunnels? Things involving him are always, well, _you know,_ ” 

“That’s… a lot,” Jon says. He pulls his cardigan closer to himself, it’s ridiculously cold down here. 

Martin huffs, a small almost-laugh. It sounds bitter more than anything. “Yeah, and I haven’t even told you the Elias Thing,” 

“The what?” 

Martin tenses up and mumbles something. 

Jon sighs. “Martin, I can’t understand you when you talk like that—” 

“I said they killed Elias!” 

The accusation echoes across the tunnels and right into Jon’s skull where it instantly begins rattling. 

He can’t have possibly heard that right. Right? 

“I- what? As if the time travelers, a-as if–” 

“ _Us,_ yes! And they seemed pretty happy about it,” He pauses. “Punched him, too,” 

“He- Do you think they’re going to...” 

“Do it again? Pretty sure,” 

“...Good lord.” 

They walk in silence for a while after that. It’s a lot to process, after all, that the person who claims to be you killed your idiot boss. Sure, he’s said things like “god, I’m going to kill Elias,” when the man kept refusing to change the fire system to CO2 for worm safety reasons. But it’s not like he ever actually _meant it._ He isn’t capable of murder. 

Apparently, his doppelganger is. And so is Martin’s, which is somewhat even more baffling. Though the guy does have vague criminal vibes. 

(Distantly, his fingers twitch with the thought of wanting to light a cigarette. He pushes it away.) 

“Oh shit,” Martin whispers beside him and Jon comes back from the little corner of his mind he had retreated into just in time to stop before bumping into Martin. 

He looks in up and agrees ”Oh shit,” 

In front of them, their torches break the seeping darkness to reveal a rumpled blanket fort surrounded by an entire stolen shopping cart, empty tea boxes of a variety of brands and flavors, and a throw pillow with “Can’t Save The World With A Sore Back” embroidered on it. It seems fairly innocent and even somewhat _cozy_ until you see the mounds of statements and so, so much gasoline. 

“You don’t think–” Martin starts until voices begin echoing down the tunnels. Their voices. 

“You were _absolutely_ single-handedly managing the entire Institute,” 

“Did not,” 

“You did! Elias wasn’t there, and Peter Lukas might as well have been gone, too. Hell, you even used his office!” 

“That doesn’t mean–” 

“I can’t believe my partner is a former head of The Magnus Institute. Jonah Magnus whomst?” 

A snort. “Piss off, Jon,” 

In a panic ( _go go go!),_ Jon and Martin scramble to grab any statements within armshot and, as the wise saying goes, haul ass out of there before their doppelgangers can see them. 

This is so, _so much worse_ than Jon had anticipated. And he had been anticipating very bad things. 

The next morning Jon and Martin call up a meeting with Tim and Sasha first thing in the morning. 

Or at least they try. “Where’s Tim?” 

“Not here yet. Is anything wrong?” 

“Yes- no- Just, come into my office,” 

Inside his office, Martin sits atop Jon’s desk reviewing their notes. They had spent the entire night trying to piece together what they knew (mostly Martin, if he was being honest. He had caught Jon up with everything he’d learned during the last few days about their current threat. It was, Jon had to admit, a little impressive) before sharing it with Tim and Sasha, but they had only gotten so far in a few terrified, sleep-deprived hours. Jon completely misses the way Sasha raises her eyebrows at him. 

“Martin?” He calls. “Can you go look for The Statements while Tim gets here, please?” They had hidden the retrieved statements inside two boxes last night, one in the storage room and the other one under the couch inside the breakroom. 

Martin’s cheeks redden as he smiles at him. “Sure thing, Jon,” 

As he leaves Sasha catches Jon’s eye and gives him A Look. 

He frowns, did he say something wrong? “What?” 

Sasha just shakes her head, fondly. Weird, Jon will have to put a pin on that later. 


	9. I GUESS IT WAS A COUPLE’S TATTOO AFTER ALL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My friend said she got a headache reading this chapter so good luck with that

The Time Travelers are weird as fuck. But that’s okay. Tim can cope with that.

Once he came to terms with the fact that The Time Travelers aren’t an immediate threat he realized they are not only somewhat fun to talk about when it isn’t too jarring to look at their faces but also  _ wonderful  _ entertainment. There is, of course, he and Sasha's List Of Inner, Out Of Context Jokes From The Future. But there’s also an updated tally of how many pens Future Jon can simultaneously keep in his hair and then immediately forget about (the record so far has left the original one in the dust with a whopping total of eleven pens and one (1) wooden pencil), an ongoing bet to see who can catch Future Jon or Future Martin without the other (this has been unsuccessful so far, at this point Tim is beginning to consider prying them apart with a metal pole, for scientific purposes, and even then he isn’t sure it would work. Whatever brand of glue they bought to keep attached at the hip he wants some. Send link, please), and The List of Out Of Context, Ominous Statements (From The Future) which keeps track of their every out of context, ominous statement (regarding the future). The latter is Sasha’s favorite, she’s very committed to figuring out what exactly happened in The Future like some kind of unorthodox psychic. Tim is just happy to tag along and count how many different kinds of tea Future-Martin can make (12 so far).

They are a deeply strange pair, especially considering how they are literally their coworkers but with seemingly more trauma (They snuck up a tape recorder beside Future Jon once to test what his deal with them was.  _ Terrible idea _ , would not do again. Apologized profusely by trying and failing to make homemade ice cream in the break room to let him rant about emulsifiers. Turns out, he still has A Lot of feelings about them). If he’s being honest, Tim is unsure of how much he actually wants to know about The Future if his friends turned out  _ Like That _ . Sure, Future Martin earned a fair amount of confidence, and he also looks like he got his throat slit at least once. And Future Jon is straight-up blind and by the look of those scars, he doesn’t think it was a painless experience. He knows Sasha dies inside everyday she has to keep herself from outright asking all the gory details of what happened, but Tim is good for now. 

They seem happy enough for the time being, especially now that Tim stopped giving them The Silence Treatment. And Tim will be fine. Funny how humans can adapt to even the most bizarre of situations.

On a bright, sunny, Wednesday morning Tim descends to the dusty basement he calls a workplace running a little late to find it completely deserted. His first thought is that the Time Travelers finally snapped and murdered everybody. But then he sees Jon peeking from inside his office frantically gesturing at him.

No murder then, thank fuck.

“Morning' Boss,” He greets him, fully expecting another rant about how his evil doppelganger is stealing his paperwork.

“We need to talk,’’ He says grimly. For a second, Tim feels like he’s about to get broken up with, which  _ ouch _ . And then he sees Sasha inside the office, too, and he knows this is not about him and Jon’s nonexistent relationship problems.

“ _ Okayyyy _ ,” He mumbles and goes to stand beside Sasha. What? If he doesn’t have any magical superglue he’ll just do it the DIY way. “Where’s Martin?”

Jon’s face does a weird thing at the mention of his name and Tim is slowly but surely beginning to get concerned. “He should be in the storage room. Actually, could you co check up on him?”

Tim rolls his eyes. Jon won’t admit it but he secretly thinks Martin is some kind of evil mastermind conspiring with the Time Travelers to bring the bloody, bloody end of The Archives. But fine, he can humor him this once if that will stop him from giving Tim Crazy Eyes.

“Sure thing, Boss,’’ He shrugs.

“Wait, Tim, if he’s not at the storage he’ll probably be at the br—”

Tim closes the door behind him.

He’s never really liked the storage rooms. They’re dusty, badly lit, and overall just unpleasantly spooky. Then again, so are the entire Archives. He pushes the door open and winces as it squeaks (does buying grease for the hinges count as a paid work expense?). Tim squints against the darkness and is about to call out Martin’s name when he hears shuffling and his eye catches a familiar strawberry blonde head of curls. There he is. And look, Jon is there, too— Future Jon, that is, unless Jon learned how to teleport overnight purely out of spite. They’re standing very close, actually. Too close. It almost looks like— 

_ Oh _ . 

Oh no. 

Tim put extra effort into making sure the door doesn’t make a  _ single  _ sound as he leaves. 

Jon frowns when he doesn’t come back with Martin but honestly, Tim doesn’t get paid enough to deal with what he just saw. Plus, he’s no snitch. He does have to talk to Martin, though. Urgently. He isn’t judging, really! But he doesn’t think making out with the future version of your tetchy boss who you have an ill-advised crush on is the best coping mechanism. Is  _ that  _ what they get up at the Institute after hours? God, he  _ really  _ needs to stage an intervention for Martin, doesn’t he? 

“I think Martin is a little… preoccupied at the moment,” 

Sasha raises a single eyebrow at him because  _ of course  _ she can do that and Tim shoots her a look that says “I’ll tell you later”. She nods and turns back to Jon. 

_ Jon.  _ He most definitely cannot tell Jon about what he just saw. Not only would it make things exponentially awkward but it would give him more reasons to suspect against Martin who just really doesn’t need that right now. What is Future Jon thinking, anyway? Oh god, maybe Jon is right. Maybe they’re grooming Martin for their mysterious plans. This is  _ bad _ . 

Martin returns very shortly afterward holding a box of statements and Tim tries his hardest to keep his best poker face. What if Martin saw Tim walk in? Fuck, fuck, _ fuck.  _

But he doesn’t appear to be suspicious of Tim’s newfound cursed knowledge. Instead, he says “We found where the Time Travelers have been hiding statements. And some other stuff,” 

Martin and Jon then proceed to reach toward the floor and lift… a trapdoor? 

“Has this always been here?” Sasha asks. 

“We think so,” Says Martin. 

“This is where the doppelgangers have been hiding,” Jon says. “There’s this— all these tunnels under the Institute. It’s a  _ maze  _ down there, but Martin’s been mapping it out,” Jon’s lips quirk up for just a second as he says that. 

God, it is way too early for this. 

“How did Martin find this?” He asks. 

“I followed them the other day. They were burning the table that ate Sasha,” Tim mentally squints his eyes. A likely excuse. 

But he can’t help but be filled with relief that the thing that… _ took  _ Sasha is gone. Tentatively he reaches for her pinky finger with his and she allows it.  _ Success!  _

“They actually have,” He glances at Jon for a second. “Well, we found their— their base or something. And they have petrol. Like,  _ a lot, _ ’ 

“Probably to burn haunted artifacts,” Jon states and Martin nods. They’ve talked about this. 

“Okay,” Sasha says. “So we found their hideout and their anti-haunting supplies. What do we do about it? 

“That’s not all,’ Martin winces. “They, well,” 

“They killed Elias.” 

Tim’s first thought is  _ well duh, I’d kill Elias, too  _ and then he realizes they’re serious. 

“Oh.” 

“ _ Why?” _ Asks Sasha. 

Jon and Martin, apparently, don’t know. But they're working on it, they say. They fill them in on the rest, like Jurgen Leitner’s alleged proximity to the Institute and Future Martin’s position as Head of The Institute at some point. Both Jon and Martin look like they haven’t slept in a month and have the same slightly maniac look in their eyes. Just what they needed, for the two of them to go full on Sherlock Holmes. It’s a lot to process at once and Tim hasn’t even had coffee yet,  _ fuck _ .

Later that day he corners Martin in the Break Room. 

“Hi, Tim,” Martin smiles at him like they weren’t discussing their bosses murder a few hours ago. His hands shake as he holds the kettle. “Want some tea?” 

“No, I—” He takes a deep breath. “I don’t know how to approach this so I’ll just say it. I know,” 

A pause. “I’m sorry?” 

“I  _ know _ ,” 

“Tim I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” 

“About,” He lowers his voice. “You and Future Jon,” 

“What about me and Other Jon?” 

Damn, he’s good. 

“Earlier today, at the storage,” He prompts. 

He frowns. “The storage? I mean, he was there when I went to look for The Statements so I went for the ones under the couch instead. Tim, did something happen?” 

Hold on. “Did you… did you see your future self this morning? 

“Yeah, he was going into the storage right as I was leaving. Tim, you’re worrying me, what are you going on about?” 

Oh. That makes more sense. 

“Why are you making that face?  _ Tim!?”  _

He gives Martin a nervous smile. “I saw them,” 

‘Yes, Tim, we established that already. What about it?” 

He curls his lips inwards to keep himself from laughing. The situation isn’t even  _ that  _ funny but it’s so absolutely bizarre he can’t help but wanting to laugh. 

“They were  _ kissing _ ,” 

Martin’s face proceeds to do a few things during the next few seconds. First, he gapes at Tim, then he turns so red Tim would worry about his circulation if he wasn’t too busy trying to not crack up, then he sputters helplessly before exclaiming “ _ Fuck off!”  _

Tim nods. 

“Tim, no, you — you must’ve seen wrong o-or something!’’ 

“I know what I saw,” 

Martin abandons the kettle and goes to sit down. “If you’re pulling a prank on me—’’ 

He gasps. “I would never!” 

Martin hides his face behind his hands. “Oh god,” 

“That  _ does  _ explain why they’re so close,” 

“Tim, no _ ,  _ it’s— it’s probably some survivor stuff or-or”— 

“We could also just ask them about it,” 

Martin emerges from his hiding spot to glare at him, scandalized. “Absolutely not!” 

“Look, there they are!” He sees them passing by the door. “Future squad!” 

They turn to him. “Hey Tim,” Future Jon grins at him. He shudders. He still isn’t used to That. Future Martin also gives him a smile but, well, he always has this slight stony aura around him. It’s a bit intimidating, not going to lie. He can kind of see it, how this guy could have possibly committed a murder or two. It’s just so weird because he’s still  _ Martin.  _

“Martin and I have a question for you guys,” 

“Tim, I will kill you,” Martin cries. 

Future Jon and Future Martin (Jartin? Mon? He’ll work on that.) settle next to each other against the counter. Future Jon hops up on it, making him for once in his life as tall as Future Martin. 

“Ask away,” Future Martin says. 

Tim smirks. ‘‘Are you two, like, dating?” 

They turn to each other and shrug. “Guess the cat’s out of the bag. Yes, we’re d—’’ 

“Technically we are engaged,” Future Jon says. 

Future Martin snaps his fingers like he just remembered where he left the keys. “Oh, we  _ are.  _ When are we getting married?” 

Martin makes a pained noise from his seat. This  _ so  _ makes up for all the murder talk this morning. 

Future Jon makes a mock thoughtful expression. “Hmm, at some point,” He decides with a nod. 

‘’Yeah, we’ll get to it eventually,” Future Martin agrees. 

Martin suddenly stands. “I need to go do paperwork, immediately!” He claims and proceeds to flee the room. 

Future Martin winces. “That’s why we weren’t going to tell you guys,” 

Tim shrugs. Fair. “How long have you been together?” 

“An indefinite amount of time,” 

‘’You guys are the worst,” 

Future Martin glances at the abandoned kettle. “Oh, want some tea?

Later that day Tim goes out for drinks with Sasha. After everything he learned he almost wants to drink so much he forgets it all. They sit together in a secluded little booth across from each other and Tim mourns a warmth by his side he never had. 

“What was it that you were going to tell me this morning?” She asks a few pints in. 

Tim almost snorts cheap beer out of his nose. “You won’t guess who I caught making out at the storage room,” He says. 

Sasha gapes at him, amused.  _ “No way!”  _ She says in a way that implies she’s only getting confirmation for what she already suspected.

“And it’s even better than that,” He says. 

Sasha puts her elbow on the table and places her chin in her palm with that fantastic glint in her eyes and Tim  _ hurts _ . He orders another pint.


	10. JELLY BEANS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is going to be shorter than usual so it’ll probably be up during the weekend !

As it turns out, having a cane (like an actual cane, not just a particularly long stick) does make things easier for Jon. What is not easy is slowly but surely stealing enough petrol to burn the entire Magnus Institute to the ground. 

Years ago, Jon imagines he would’ve been against theft, but perspective really is key and really, this  _ is _ for the greater good of, like, the entire world. JMarts will recover. It is an awfully tedious process, though, since they are trying to not get arrested and all. Nothing like the movies would’ve made it seem, unfortunately.

But at least he has his Martin again. That’s what matters.

He wraps his arms around his broad shoulders and kisses him soundly in the now deserted parking lot. Martin is tall, annoyingly so, (and Jon is, well, let’s just say he kept waiting for his growth spur to hit until uni. It never came) which means Martin has to lean down a bit to kiss him even when he’s reaching up to him on his tiptoes. His lips taste like the jelly beans he grabbed from the gas station, sweet and sour, and Jon feels surrounded by the smell of warm tea, wool, and bitter spice and  _ Martin, Martin, Martin. _

He hums sweetly and his hand tickles the baby hairs at the back of Martin’s neck and he thinks of when he’d refuse to stand on his tiptoes to make Martin lift him up. He thinks of their first kiss, small and partially accidental and so very sweet. He thinks of Scotland.

He thinks about The Safehouse a lot. Those three sepia-colored weeks when they knew danger was nipping at their heels but they could just afford to shove it down under the carpet, for just a second, to breathe. Together. He’d like to go back again someday. He misses the rolling hills and the good cows and the little bubble he and Martin made there for themselves. That little honeymoon was cut far too short by, well…

Jon stands back on his heels.

“How are they?” He asks as he shoves his pink sunglasses back down to his face from where they were settled atop his head and Martin, he assumes, does the same with his own glasses. Martin had been the last one to see their friends before they went Back. Well, ‘friends’ might be a bit of a stretch. They aren’t exactly  _ fond  _ of Martin anymore and Martin does nothing but glare at them when they happen to find each other wandering the same Domain. Needless to say, Martin did not take the multiple murder attempts as well as Jon did. But he knows Martin still cares for them under all the resentment and hopes that once all of this is over maybe they’ll stop trying to take a stab at Jon’s jugular.

Martin huffs, annoyed. “When they saw me without you Basira asked if I had “finally snapped” and thrown you off a Vast Cliff,”

Jon laughs, remembering the time Melanie had tried to do just that. “So they’re fine,”

“As much as they can be, yes,” He lowers his face into Jon’s hair. “We’ll see them again, soon,’’ He says, muffled.

“Will I?’’

Martin gently shoves him away. “Smartass,’’

“You love me,”

“Foolish man,” He says fondly.

“Who's the more foolish, the fool or the fool who marries him?”

“I— did you just quote Star Wars at me?’’

Jon scoffs. “I can make a reference—”

“Four years and an Eyepocalypse and I’ve never—”

“Hush, you,”

“And we’re not married,” He adds.

“Yet.’’

“Yet.” He agrees.

He rubs his hand up and down Martin’s arm. “How do you think Past-You is taking that?”

Martin blows a breath and Jon fees warmth on his face. He smiles. “Terribly,” 

“You don’t think he'll be telling Past-Me?” 

_ “Absolutely not, _ ” 

“Yes, I thought so,” 

Jon lightly presses his thumb against the corner of Martin’s lips and feels him smiling. This will all be over soon, it has to be. He’s _ so very tired  _ of fighting. He knows that without Martin pushing forward he’d have stumbled against a pebble fallen face-first into Beholding long ago, far before he finally cut his connection to it. Back when he still had his Eyes, his greatest fear was that he’d sink so deep into the thick muddied waters of terror he’d Forget. Forget Georgie’s contagious laugh that would go on forever, Melanie’s jokes and the way they’d accidentally match their nail polish all the time, Basira’s hand on his shoulder, Daisy’s fingers braiding his hair, the Admiral’s fur stuck to his clothes, Tim’s firm hugs, Sasha’s voice on the tape recorder, Martin’s hand on his. Martin’s smile against his cheek, his freckles, his warm weight beside him on the bed, his voice saying his name. Martin _.  _

He was afraid he’d Forget how to Love when all he was surrounded with was Pain. 

There was a time where he was the flimsiest rope in a game of thug. On one side there was the entirety of the world’s suffering dropped at his lap to feed him and feed him and feed him and it would feel so good, so  _ right,  _ and it would be so easy. On the other there was Martin. And Martin kept winning every single time. It shouldn’t have been possible but Jon Knows he loves this man something ridiculous. He loves him nonsensically and against all odds. And that’s enough. He doesn’t need Beholding for him to Know that. He’s just thankful to be able to take his hand and not be afraid anymore. 

Maybe one day they can get a little cottage and make it entirely their own. Finally get married. But now they really need to get out of the parking lot before the police show up. 

They emerge from the tunnels early in the morning when Martin’s past self should be asleep and Jon’s still at home. He doesn’t enjoy getting up this early, has never been a morning person, but sacrifices must be made to save the world and all. Maybe that will be his reward for fixing everything: The Privilege Of Sleeping In. 

When they close the trapdoor inside the Head Archivist office Martin bursts out laughing. 

“Hm?” 

“They— oh my god,” He wheezes. “They put up a murder board about us,” 

Jon can’t help it, he starts laughing, too. “With the red string?” 

Martin hums an affirmative. “And a bunch of sticky notes and everything,” He says. “Oh, fuck. I think they know we killed Elias,” Martin sounds horrified but he still can’t stop laughing. 

He sputters. “ _ How?”  _

Martin snorts. “Past-Me must’ve followed us one of these days or something. Fuck, I thought he’d be too busy with Worm Business,” 

Well, that’s not good. It also happens to be a bit hysterical. “Oh, well. They were going to find out sooner or later” He shrugs. And then, “We should mess with the board,” 

“Jon you terrible menace. Let’s do it,” 

After switching up a few strings and putting up some sticky notes filled with nonsense ( _ “The significance of Elias’ stoner phase???” _ ) they leave the Head Archivist office and Martin immediately squeaks. 

“Hi, Sasha!” He greets, a little more high pitched than usual. 

She’s here very early. “‘Morning,” He says. 

They burnt the web table, therefore Sasha shouldn’t be at risk of getting murdered and replaced by The Stranger any time soon. Curiosity, though, it's a hazard of its own and Jon knows firsthand it is not as easy to get rid of as a table. He just hopes she doesn’t get into any trouble by the end of the week. That’s all they need.  _ Just _ until the end of the week. 

“I was wondering,” She starts, as she usually does. She’s been trying to worm (hah) information out of them for weeks, which, fair. “When did you two get together?” 

He wasn’t expecting that but he supposes he should’ve anticipated Tim to share the news with her. 

_ When  _ is a bit of a complicated question. So instead Martin says “Scotland” at the same time Jon says “A Fear Dimension,” 

“I—’’ 

“Hold on,” Martin begins. “We didn’t get together at The L—  _ that  _ place,” 

“But we knew about each other’s feelings then, didn’t we, Martin-Dear?” 

Before they can spiral into yet another discussion about The Significant Difference Between Knowing v.s. Communicating Sasha cuts in. “There are  _ Fear Dimensions? _ ” 

Jon winces. How can he explain The Lonely without actually explaining The Lonely and such similar fear dimensions? 

“Long story, we’ll tell you another time. Want tea?” Martin says. 

Sasha sighs. “Sure,” She says in a tone that suggests she’ll be asking more questions over tea. 

Martin makes tea. 

“This is  _ the _ best tea I’ve ever had,” Jon sighs and shakes his hands happily just like he does every time Martin makes tea nowadays. 

Martin laughs and Jon can practically hear him blushing, even after all this time. “Sap,” 

“So I take it you two have been together for a while?” Sasha asks. 

“Technically,” 

A door slams in the main room and Jon can already tell who it is from the distinct slight skip in his step. He missed that skip. By the time he died he just stomped through The Archives like he was trying to tear down the place with just his presence. 

“Morning, everyone!” Tim’s voice echoes through the Archives,”   
  
“Hello Tim,” Jon and Martin say simultaneously. 

“Morning Timothy,” Sasha says with a chuckle. 

The chair between Jon and Sasha scrapes the floor as it's moved back. “I see that we’re having a tea party, do we have any biscuits?” Tim notes. 

Martin laughs lightly. “Unfortunately we’ve got no biscuits,” 

Tim’s elbows hit the table as he presumably leans forward. “Tell me, in The Future, do you have robots that just make tea for you?”    


“We’re not from  _ that _ far in The Future, Tim,” Says Jon. At least, the world didn’t have that much time to develop before it Ended. “But we do have Frozen 2,” 

“No shit!” Shrieks Tim. 

Sasha chokes on her tea. “You need to tell us  _ everything,”  _

Martin’s past self arrives around halfway through an enthusiast retelling of Frozen 2 closely followed by Jon’s who quickly skitters away to his office without a word. He walks into the break room where they’re all sitting and awkwardly stands there for a moment. 

“Um,” Past-Martin says, and then adds. “Oh, hi Jon. and, uh, me,” 

Jon will give it to them, the assistants are doing a fairly okay job at pretending he and Martin aren’t technically murderers and whatever other crimes they found out about from their quite extensive list. (Though he’s not sure if he should consider killing Jonah a  _ crime.  _ More like a favor to the world at large. Even if at the time it had felt completely pointless). 

“They’re telling us what happens in Frozen 2,” Tim fills Past-Martin in. 

He gasps. ‘No spoilers!” 

“We’ll continue this later,’’ Sasha says, dead-serious. 

“So, um, you’re talking about The, uhhh, The Future…?” 

“And all of Disney’s future endeavors, yes,” 

“Including the live-action remakes,” His Martin adds. 

“Ugh,” 

Past-Martin audibly grimaces. “They’ll still be making those? Yikes,’’ 

A Pause. 

“Anyway, I’ll just go to— get some tea. Yeah. Bye,” Past-Martin stammers before proceeding to leave the room where the tea is at. 

“This is so awkward,” Tim says cheerfully. 

Past-Martin has been in a constant state of fluster since he found out about his future self’s engagement to Jon which, fair. Jon is well aware that he wasn’t exactly husband material (still isn’t, in his opinion, but he never claimed Martin has a good taste in men). He’s also aware of Past-Martin’s crush on his own past self (though he’s not entirely sure of how true that is anymore due to their,  _ ah _ , intervention in this timeline). So he’s not surprised by his reaction. There  _ is  _ a reason he and his Martin decided to not tell anyone about their relationship. He can only imagine how his own past self would react. Instantly implode, probably. 

“So, Future Gang,” Tim starts. (he’s been testing different names for them. This week alone they’ve been called Future Squad, Future Gang, Future Duo, Future Jonmartin (?), Future Mon (?????), and Future Arcrewvists). “Do you think there’s any hope for our Martin?” 

His Martin winces. Jon pauses. Is there? As much as they dislike it, they don’t exactly expect their past selves to talk to each other after they burn the Institute down. They weren’t in the best terms, not really, not enough to warrant a friendship outside of a work environment. The romantic part of Jon would like to say he and Martin would end up together no matter the timeline, but realistically speaking, well… 

But Tim and Sasha don’t know they’re going to burn the Institute. “Give them like four years of character development and maybe—” 

“I refuse to witness this pining for four more years!” Tim cries. 

“I agree, I’m sure it would constitute a hazard to my health,” Sasha adds. 

Behind him, his own voice announces his presence with an annoyed grunt. They all immediately shut the fuck up. 

“Good morning,” Past-Jon states from the entrance, ill-tempered and forcibly serious. “Tim, did you–” He cuts himself off, exasperated. “I’m sorry, do you two do  _ anything  _ besides loitering in my Archives?”

Besides him, his Martin snorts. “Of course! Just yesterday we went sightseeing,” He announces, purposely overly cheerful. 

Past-Jon scoffs “ _ Anyway _ , Tim–”

Later that day they catch Past Martin on his own. This sounds suspicious and ominous but is actually very innocent if you don’t account for ulterior motives. 

“We just thought you needed some time out of The Archives,” His Martin claims after telling him of a local poetry reading this Thursday. 

“Oh,” Past-Martin says. “That’s– that actually sounds very nice. Thanks,” 

Of course, they just need him out of The Archives long enough to, you know, burn it to a crisp like an evil roasted chicken. But Jon does hope he enjoys the poetry, too. 

Past-Martin scurries away, probably to record poetry on company time now that he’s been reminded, and he and his Martin move to the storage rooms. Maybe they can snatch a couple of more statements away before Thursday, just in case. 

The door closes and he takes his hand. 

“Are you ready, Summer’s Day?” 

Martin huffs. “Are you seriously not letting that go?” 

He shrugs. “Seeing how I no longer have an unlimited amount of sonnets provided by The Eye and the fact that Sonnet 18 is the only one I actually ever bothered to memorize, no. I’m not letting that go,” 

(He still sometimes wishes—)

His Martin sighs, trying to sound annoyed but coming off as endeared. “Yeah, I thought so,” He squeezes his hand. “Come on, I bet we can sneak out a few jerry cans out of Tesco today,”


	11. OH WORM 2: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one’s a shorter one, you guys. Enjoy :)
> 
> Edit: Props to @lonely_the_band for the new chapter name !

“Okay, what if— and hear me out on this one— being head of the Institute works like The Santa Clause?”

Sasha blinks. “ _Huh?_ ”

Jon places his chin on his hand, never taking his eyes off Martin. “No, no, I think he might be onto something,”

“Look, I know how it sounds just— _listen!_ ” Martin points at The Murder Board. “The Santa Clause states that if you kill Santa you become Santa, right?”

“Obviously,” Tim nods, but he seems distracted. 

“Well, we know The Institute isn’t, like, normal. So being head of The Institute probably doesn’t work by normal rules either, right?” Martin repeatedly taps a sticky note that reads _“Who’s The Boss? Martin, apparently”_. “According to our future selves, I become the head of The Institute, _somehow_. But that makes absolutely no sense! The Institute’s hierarchy does not work like that, especially if Jon is still around,”

Jon nods like he completely understands where the hell Martin is heading at. “The only way is if it worked by Santa Clause rules. If you kill the head of The Institute, you become the head of The Institute,”

“I— I’m sorry,” Tim interrupts. “Is no one going to acknowledge _“The Significance of Elias’ Stoner Phase”?_ ” Tim points at a sticky note that none of them remember writing.

“More on that later,” Martin states. “Now the question is: Why would my future self want to be head of The Institute?”

“Shouldn’t you know that?” Sasha asks. “I mean, it’s _you_ ,”

“We don’t associate with our doppelgangers, don’t ask us,” Jon chimes in.

Sasha sighs. They have been holding these ‘conferences’ (Sasha calls them War Meetings) for days and they haven’t gotten anywhere. She wants to know why the time travelers murdered Elias, of course she does! She just doesn’t think holing up in Jon’s office and yelling about it for a few hours on the daily is the best approach. She knows he and Martin have been trying to spy on the time travelers almost every night to the point where she’s partially convinced Jon might be staying at The Archives with Martin, but they haven’t had much luck finding them or their base lately (and if she’s being really honest she’s more curious about the Jurgen Leitner thing than anything else. “Why Kill Elias?” you say? More like why _not_ kill Elias, the guy is a wanker). If you were to ask her, Sasha would suggest just asking the time travelers. Forcefully. With rope and duct tape and all the usual interrogation stuff. But _no,_ that’s ‘too forward’. So now she’s stuck watching Jon and Martin feed off of each other's manic energies until one of them snaps. Who knows, maybe it’s a self-fulfilling prophecy type of thing and this is what leads to the murder of one Elias Bouchard.

Rolling her eyes, Sasha tunes in back to the conversation just in time to hear Martin say “—part of a drug deal.”

“I can see that happening,” Jon nods. Sasha doesn’t want to be mean, but since when did Jon start taking Martin seriously? Not that he doesn't deserve it, he does! In most cases. She just didn’t expect to see it coming from Jon. Though, accounting for he and Martin’s apparent Future engagement, she supposes she should’ve assumed there was something under all that sharpness and dismissal after all. And Martin, well, as long as he doesn’t look Jon in the eye under any circumstances he seems to be holding up alright. And Jon doesn’t seem to notice Martin’s recent inability to meet his eyes. It’s certainly not stopping them from going on and on about Elias’ tragic demise.

“You guys lost me at Elias smoking weed,” Said Tim. “He’s obviously a cocaine type of guy,”

Sasha resists the urge to facepalm and wonders if she should even bother. Maybe she should ask Him. He might know something. But not now, coffee meetings must wait until after work. God, she’s such a busy, busy woman.

“Do you think they’re doing okay?” Tim asks her later that day as they file some documents. Mostly dead-ended research. She looks at the clock. They should be done with work soon.

“Not at all,” She states happily. 

“Yeah, I thought so,” Tim agrees. “You know, maybe this is what brings them together after all,”

“Conspiracy theories?”

“Absolutely, is there anything more romantic than discussing how you and your sweetheart murdered your boss in the Future?’ Tim bats his eyelashes dramatically. They’re far too long and pretty. Sasha has always found that a bit unfair. 

“I can think of a few things,” 

“Do tell,”

“ _Actively_ planning my bosses’ murder, for one,” 

Tim clutches at this chest. “Sasha, you’ll make me swoon!” 

Before Tim can throw himself to the floor and single-handedly begin reenacting Romeo and Juliet, a loud crash echoes from Jon’s office. 

Tim snorts. “You think they finally went off against each other?” 

She huffs a laugh. “Probably,” 

A beat. 

“We should probably—” 

“Yeah, let’s go,” 

Sasha hurries to the Head Archivist office with Tim in tow and flings the door open. The first thing she sees is Jon and Martin standing on top of the desk, which isn’t as strange of a sight as it should’ve been. 

And then Sasha sees the worms. 

“ _—the extinguishers!_ ” Jon yells. 

“Shit, shit, shit, shit!” Martin cries as he sprays the squirming mass of worms with his small, portable extinguisher. No doubt already running out of CO2. 

“Oh what the fuck!” Tim squeals. 

“ _Now!”_

Sasha and Tim scramble towards the main room and they can hear the worms chasing after them, wriggling their gross, little bodies against the unvarnished wooden floor and toward them, clinging at the soles of their feet and trying to climb up their legs and inside their skin and burrow and burrow and burrow… 

Most of the fire extinguishers are inside the storage room where Martin has been staying but honestly there’s one in every corner of the archives which Sasha had thought to be a bit too much but is suddenly incredibly grateful for. She and Tim snatch one each but when they go to turn back they see the path toward Jon’s office clustered by the twitching heap of maggots. 

“Sasha, run!” Tim yells. 

“To where!?” She sprays in a semi-circle around her and she swears she can feel them all over her, under her clothes, inside her pores, between every single crevice, and she doesn’t know if it’s the panic or if they really are— “They’re everywhere!” She doesn’t know if she means The Archives or herself. 

_(She needs— she has to—)_

From his office, Sasha hears Jon curse followed by a moist thump. He and Martin race into the main room through the increasingly tinning path she and Tim made. 

“Over here!” Martin pants. 

_(She should— she needs to call—)_

Sasha grips Tim’s wrist and follows.   
  
  
  



	12. FRIENDSHIP ENDED WITH AGNES MONTAGUE, NOW JANE PRENTISS IS  MY BEST FRIEND

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to my friend who I’ve been harassing into helping me out with the last few chapters <3

Jon grabs another jerry-can from the shopping cart and begins pouring its contents into the grimy ground of the tunnels.

They have been at this for a while now and nearly all the gas has been spilled underneath The Institute. Everyone should be home by now and Martin’s past self shouldn’t be returning from the poetry reading in at least one more hour. By then, the Institute will be all up in flames. They will be setting the upper levels aflame, too, for good measure, but this should be enough to trigger a few flimsy gas pipes and bye-bye, The Magnus Institute shall be no more. Then, of course, it’s Elias’ turn. Martin can almost feel his heart bursting with joy at the thought of decimating this rotten, rotten building and all of the curses within it. For good this time. As Jon dumps the now empty canister on the floor and reaches inside the stolen shopping cart to take another one, Martin pauses and hunches down to grab the fire extinguisher on the lower compartment. There’s a few pesky worms squirming around the tunnels, but nothing that can’t be solved with a bit of CO2.

They turn on a corner and Martin sighs as he sees more worms wigging toward them.

And then there are more worms.

(And yet even more worms.)

These are way too many worms.

“Jon, love, light of my light?”

A sappy smile pulls at his lips and Martin wants to strangle him. With love, of course. “Martin-Dear?”

“When was Prentiss’ attack supposed to happen, again?”

“Around next week, I guess,”

“You _guess?_ ”

“Yes, I guess. Why, is something the matter, Martin-Dear?”

“Jon?”

“Hm?”

“ _Jon,_ ’

A beat.

“Oh— _Oh fuck!_ ”

“I thought you knew this!” He snaps.

“Yeah, well, so did I!” Jon argues. “It’s been a while, alright!”

“I— fine, it’s fine!” Martin does not sound fine. “We messed up, it's fine! We have no time for this, we need to focus. They’re probably—’’

“ _Sasha_ ,”

‘Fuck, fuck. _Fuck!”_

They leave the shopping cart behind as they take off running.

(Martin takes the fire extinguisher with him.)

The closer they get to The Institute itself the more worms they find writhing and searching for places to burrow in. Martin sprays them as they go, he doesn’t want to have to use a corkscrew _Like That_ ever again, but they don’t have time to kill them all even as they begin blindly chasing them and nipping at their feet. They need to hurry, they need to—

(With all the other trauma Martin had amassed throughout the years he has nearly forgotten how much he fucking hated worms. How fucked up Prentiss’ attack had been. He and Jon were supposed to protect them from this, _fuck_.)

As they scramble towards The Archives they begin to hear frantic footsteps echoing through the tunnels. He and Jon slow their pace and keep their guard up.

“Who—?” Jon begins.

The person comes into view. Oh. Martin places his hand on Jon’s shoulder.

“Oh my god, you’re here,” His own face stares back at him, younger and tear-streaked and so, so terrified. 

“Is it Jane Prentiss?” He and Jon ask.

Past-Martin nods shakily. “I was at Jon’s office and— and there was a spider and Jon was going to kill it but I told him not to and we ended up wrestling for—for the fucking _stapler_ and then he— and the wall cracked and—Oh god, there were so many worms and she was there and—”

“The others, where are they?’’

Past-Martin shakes his head. “Lost Tim and Jon in the tunnels. I thought I had them mapped out but I got lost and— and—“

“Sasha?”

“Haven’t seen her since she tackled Jane Prentiss,”

“She _what?”_

“That’s not all,” Past Martin continues. “I found— I found—” 

Ah. 

Martin hesitates. I mean, would it be considered weird to hug yourself even if it’s to comfort you after seeing your very first corpse? But before he can mull over it for more than a few seconds Jon reaches for Past-Martin’s arm and gives it a reassuring squeeze. 

“We’ll take care of this,” He promises. “Go look for Sasha o—or stay here. Just, stay safe,” 

“We’ll be back,” He says. His past self nods, still running entirely on fear and adrenaline and only half-processing what they’re saying. 

Good enough.

  
  


When he and Jon push open the trapdoor to The Archives the first thing they hear is the screams. 

“We’re late,” Says Jon. 

“But not _too_ late, come on,” 

Jon leads him to the main room of The Archives where he knows Jane Prentiss is along with Tim and Past-Jon. 

(He wonders how much of this Jon remembers. Judging by the screams, he hopes not a lot) 

They open the door and The Archives looks snowed in with how many white little maggots are covering the place. Fucking repulsive. Tim and Past-Jon are on the floor, writhing and screaming in pain as dozens of worms burrow into them as they try to make a home of their flesh. They lie on their own blood and hold onto each other and Martin is not sure of how conscious they really are. Above them stands Jane Prentiss’ withered form, a hollow sack barely tethered together by the worms that inhabit the shell that is her body. Martin would pity her, but he doesn’t have it in him right now. 

_“Archivisssst?’’_ She drawls at the sight of them, a little confused but definitely with spirit. Or, as much spirit as you can have when you’re a literal flesh hive. 

“Martin, get the CO2, I’ll take care of Tim and Past-Me,” 

He huffs. Got it, love. 

“Hey!” Martin calls out to Prentiss. (As her neck snaps toward him he distantly hears Tim cry out _“Ow, get the fuck away from me, man!”_ as Jon absently apologizes for jamming his cane into his side a tad too hard.) He needs to keep her attention away from them. 

Jane smiles at him, all gums and tongue and no lips or teeth. _“Can you hear them sssing?”_

Martin has heard this song for far too long and honestly, it’s a bit out of tune. He shakes the fire extinguisher with fervor and— 

It’s empty. It’s fucking empty. He used it all up in the tunnels. 

She steps closer and Martin can feel the worms trying to squirm up his boots. It’s fine, this is fine! He can improvise. He’s fist-fought avatars before and he’ll do it again, goddamnit. 

“Heads up!” He calls childishly and proceeds to swing the empty fire extinguisher against her neck. The disgusting, wet crunch of her bones breaking echoes across the room and Martin grimaces as she continues to drag her feet toward him, limp-hanging neck and everything. 

“Right,” Martin laughs, a little hysterically. ‘‘Time for Plan B,” 

He doesn’t have a Plan B. 

_“They sssing so sssweetly,”_

“Yeah, yeah,” He quickly glances over his shoulder to see Jon struggling to drag all five feet eleven inches of Tim across the room toward the storage. 

He needs to buy Jon more time. He rolls his shoulders and gets ready to take the fire extinguisher for one more swing, but he pauses as he suddenly hears a very different type of singing coming from his left. 

He just barely gets a glimpse of Sasha stepping out of Michael’s door with his own past self in tow before she screams “Out of the way!” 

Martin, in fact, flings himself out of the way just in time to avoid getting caked in gasoline. He hits the floor (that’ll bruise) and turns to the sight of Sasha throwing the now empty canister at a soaked Jane Prentiss. She giggles, definitely high on CO2, and Martin does not remember any of this happening the first time around. 

“Sasha!?” Asks Jon. 

“Where did you get that!?’’ Martin squeaks. 

His past self smirks. “We found your shopping cart,” And then he lights the web lighter and throws it at Jane Prentiss. 

His first thought is “huh, so that’s where it went.” Then he hears Jane Prentiss’ hellish wails or whatever the fuck are those terrible noises she’s making. He flinches painfully, it’s like his brain is being squeezed and bleeding out of his ears. 

“Did they just— _what?”_ Jon momentarily drops a now unconscious Tim to cover his ears against the acoustic onslaught. 

Martin steps back from the flaming avatar. (Agnes Montague could never) He watches her clutch at her paper-thin skin desperately as it begins catching fire from the inside and stumbles backward in a futile attempt to escape what’s now burning from within her. It smells terrible, like a rotten barbecue. “They, uh. They set Prentiss on fire,” 

“They set Prentis on fire!?” 

“They set Prentiss on fire,” He confirms. 

“They set Prentiss on fire!” Tim whoops and proceeds to pass the fuck out. A few feet away Past-Jon groans in what might be an encouragement. Aw. 

“And we’re just buying time for Micahel!” Sasha announces. 

“For _what!?”_

The new CO2 Fire system goes off. Thanks, Michael. 

Martin looks at the mess around him. Past-Jon and Tim are hurt and bleeding, his past self and Sasha are dangerously high, Jane Prentiss is trashing on the floor, very much still on fire, as her worms cry and die all over the Institute, curling within themselves and falling limply from where they were clinging to their clothes. Somehow she’s still the _only_ thing on fire, don’t mind all the flammable things in The Archives, apparently! 

The police and probably a few ambulances should be on their way. He and Jon need to leave before they, or god forbid, _Elias_ show up. 

Martin sighs. This definitely puts a fucking Brobdingnagian dent on their plans.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This marks the end of what I’ve been mentally calling Act 1 of the fic out of probably three. Chapter 13 should be up soon. Thanks a lot to everyone who’s been reading and those leaving comments !!


	13. A DUMPLING A DAY (KEEPS THE PANIC ATTACKS AWAY)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you TMA for making I Spy jokes cannon

Jon is in the tunnels.

He doesn’t know for how long he’s been running but his legs ache and his brow is slick with cold sweat. The dark passageways beneath The Institute seem to extend forever in a dizzying maze of nonsensical directions. Forward. Forward. Forward. It must’ve been hours already and all he can do is go forward toward nothingness. The worms bite at his heels. He can’t see them but he  _ knows  _ they are there, ready to climb and eat away and burrow within him until he’s nothing more than a clogged honeycomb of worm holes. 

He takes a sharp turn and standing there, in his apartment, is Jane Prentiss. She smiles at him and worms pour from her mouth in masses. He feels nauseous. He wants to go home. This was  _ not  _ in the job description.

He stumbles backward and runs to his bathroom where he desperately wrestles with the lock until he’s, seemingly, safe. But he knows it’s only a matter of time until the worms start creeping in from between the crevices. Under and above and around the door and climbing up the drain and falling limply from the ventilation into his tangled hair. What an idiot! He might as well have given himself to her in a bow with an accompanying gift card. Locking himself in a small room like this, what was he thinking!? 

Defeated, he grips the counter until his knuckles pale painfully as his wrists shake. He looks up at the mirror and the sight that welcomes him is his own face. Only that he has no eyes. His eye sockets are hollow and dripping blood down his honeycombed cheeks, spilling into the floor and pooling around his equally honeycombed feet and—

Wait a minute. That makes no sense. How is he seeing himself with no eyes? 

_ Cut! _

Jon wakes up.

He lurches forward on his bed, breath coming out short and ragged. He touches around his eyelids. Still has eyes. Good. Good. That’s good. He looks down, with the eyes he still does have, and sees the patches and bandages stuck to his arms. He flings the blanket off the bed. More patches and bandages on his legs. He imagines underneath his clothes is no better.

He reaches for his phone and looks at the date.

Ah.

It’s been two weeks since Jane Prentiss paid the Institute a visit. And she came bearing gifts.

Worms. He means worms.

He rubs at his closed eyes with his palm, a bit rougher than he probably ought to if only to feel that they are still  _ there.  _ His vision is left with the imprint of weird little squiggly lines behind his closed eyelids. It stings. Good. (He wonders. Do  _ they  _ know what happened to Gertrude? Who put those bullet wounds in her frail body? Would  _ they  _ even tell him if they did? He wonders) He finally resolves to stand up, stepping over the thin blanket left on the floor on the way to the bathroom. He flicks the light on and has to blink repeatedly while his eyes adapt. His eyes. He turns to the mirror and sighs, as he starts peeling off the bandages. He looks like a mummy.

Underneath he sees the scars. Still pink and tender. He doesn’t need to wonder how they will heal. He’s already seen it in the face of his alleged future self. On his arms, his neck, the sliver of his ankle under his cuffed jeans. The exact same scars. They aren’t all the same size or even nearly in the same placement but that is not the  _ point _ .

He will  _ not  _ become him. He won't. He refuses.

He sighs as he begins to clean his wounds. He hasn’t seen The Doppelgangers ( _ Future Gang _ , Tim’s voice insists inside his head. Far too comfortable. Far too comfortable. He hasn’t heard of Tim since… everything. Not really. Nothing except a few short texts checking in on each other. Jon has never been the best at keeping track of people) since Prentiss, hasn’t been able to go back to The Institute.  _ Martin _ won’t let him. He scoffs and his reflection copies him. Of course it had to be Martin. It’s always Martin, isn’t it?

He sighs (yes,  _ again _ , he’s so fucking tired), resigned. He hasn’t been entirely fair to Martin, has he? Sure, he isn’t the best at his job, but neither is Jon, is he? And that isn’t Martin’s fault.

(But did he really have to let a dog into His Archives? A dog?  _ Really?  _ It couldn’t it at least have been a cat? But— no. He must let go of his grudges. Georgie did always tell him he held onto those tighter than he held onto the good things) 

Martin is… actually quite smart, in certain areas. Kind, too, almost to a fault. And Jon doesn’t know how to deal with that. Jon huffs. He’s not smiling. He’s  _ not!  _ His reflection doesn’t count, fuck you. Martin is annoying, too, alright. With his clumsiness and tea that’s somehow always the perfect level of oversweet and soft-looking sweaters and fluffy strawberry blonde hair and freckles that cluster his entire face in a way that’s just irritating and distracting and the gap between his teeth that Jon sometimes wonders how it would feel like to— 

Anyway. Martin is okay. And he can sketch some pretty good maps. 

Jon was just finishing wrapping himself all up in bandages again and considering taking a shower when— 

_ Knock Knock.  _

Jon flinches away from the counter and stumbles on his fluffy rug until he hits the wall. Who is it? They’re going to kill him. ( Prentiss. Whoever murdered Gertrude. Mr. S—) He needs to get out of here. How? He’s cornered. Trapped in the bathroom, once again. Maybe he should’ve just listened to his dream (and what? Not brush his teeth?). He looks around him frantically for something, anything that could help him defend himself. _ Bingo!  _ He grabs a candlestick someone gave him for his birthday years ago and he’s never once lit and, with careful precision, he turns the handle and exits the bathroom. 

_ Knock Knock.  _

He approaches the front door, slowly, unblinkingly as the knocking continues threatening Jon’s peace. Jon’s  _ safety _ . But he’s all alone, and there’s nothing else he can do, can he? He could barricade in his apartment, but he can only hide for so long with limited supplies, Martin had proven that well enough. He groans, he doesn’t want to do this, goddamnit! But unless he’s about to fling himself out a four-story window (and he’s quite tempted to) he has to answer the door. 

His shaking hand grips the cold handle and with one last, brave intake of breath, he opens it. Just a little bit. Just enough to take a good look at his perpetrator. 

He’s greeted with the sight of Martin’s smiling face. 

“Martin.” He acknowledges his presence at Jon’s door. 

“Oh, hullu! I-  _ hah-  _ I wasn’t sure you’d answer. Um, is this a bad time?” 

Jon drops the candlestick and haphazardly kicks it under the couch. “Not at all,” 

“Okay, good, that’s— I just. I know you’ve been sort of restless. That with not being able to go to The Institute and whatnot,” And whose fault is that? “So I brought some things to, ya know, take the edge off,” 

For a second Jon thinks Martin Blackwood brought him drugs, but he quickly pushes memories of university away as he sees a book (Jon probably won't like it but the gesture is nice) and Tupperware containing… is that pierogi? ( _ Poisoned _ pierogi— no. he needs to trust Martin. He thinks about their alleged future selves. Even after everything, the scars, the cold-blooded murder, they still stuck together. Could Jon have something like that?). 

Martin notices his hesitance and smiles. “I promise I’m not a ghost,” 

Jon sputters, remembering their conversation at the storage room. “Are you not going to let that go?” 

“Nope, never,” 

Jon sighs. Martin is lucky he’s so cute. And tall—  _ oh  _ don’t look at him like that. He’s seen Martin’s doppelganger, he knows what’s under that hunch. He wonders what it would take for Martin to stand at his full height. For purely scientific purposes, obviously. 

Jon grunts to keep a smile from slipping out. “Fine, come on in,” 

Martin’s eyes widen and his face flushes beet red. Was he expecting Jon to take his gifts and kick him out? He’s not  _ that  _ bad. 

(Is he?) 

The sight of Martin in his apartment, his  _ space _ , does absolutely nothing to Jon’s pulse. No, you can’t check, get those fingers away from his artery. He goes to look for some plates and serves him and Martin a few dumplings each. He’s never had something like this for breakfast before but surprisingly, he’s not complaining. 

Martin sputters when Jon offers him a plate. Jon resists the urge to roll his eyes. This man. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Martin. It’s only fair you get to eat your own dumplings,” 

Martin looks like he still wants to protest, but for once he shuts his mouth and caves in. That’s— that’s good. Jon really doesn’t want to be alone now. 

Jon takes a bite of the pierogi and, 

Good lord. He’s going to cry. He hasn’t eaten anything this good in years. 

Instead of beginning to weep like an absolute idiot, Jon clears his throat and says. “It’s good.” 

Martin lights up like Gordon Ramsay just came into his restaurant and gave it a shining seal of approval. It’s ridiculous. Jon wants to take a picture and frame it on a wall. 

To throw darts at it or someth—  _ Fine _ , he enjoys Martin’s company, alright. Just leave him be. 

The next few minutes are spent in semi-awkward silence but Jon can’t say he minds. The food is delicious, the company is, well,  _ nice _ , and Jon hasn’t felt this warm in ages. 

At the same time, there’s only so much silence he can stand without perishing on the spot. “How are things at the Institute?” 

“Oh! Well, it’s a bit busy, to be honest, since it’s just Sasha and me. And then there's all the police going around,” 

“I could always—” 

“Absolutely no, you need to stay here and rest,” 

Jon frowns. For such a pushover Martin sure is relentless when he wishes to be. If only he put all that energy into Archiving. 

“And The Time Travelers?” 

Martin blows a puff of air. “Barely been around. They look like they’re  _ sulking  _ or something,” 

Jon snorts. “That’s definitely a mental image,” 

Martin’s eyes flick down to the table, for just a second, as the tip of his ears turn pink. “I— do you think it’s because of Prentiss?” 

Jon considers it. “Well, they did say they’re here to keep us alive,” 

“But they almost didn’t,” 

Jon doesn’t want to think about that. “Is it true that you— future you— hit Prentiss with a fire extinguisher?” 

Martin laughs, surprised at the slight change of subject, but still goes along with it. “I think? I was honestly so I high on CO2, everything is kind of fuzzy,” 

“But you remember setting Jane Prentiss on fire, right?” He allows a little bit of teasing to sneak into his tone. 

Martin hides his face in his hands. “I promise I thought it was a good idea at the moment,” 

“And it was,” he insists. “You and Sasha really saved us, all of us,” And then, “I can tell the fight got pretty  _ heated _ ,” 

“Hm? Oh, yeah, I guess. Hah,” 

Why does Jon even bother? 

The next few hours are spent in clumsy companionship. They stumble around each other and never seem to be able to get on the same footing, but they try. Martin is… very nice. To be around. And Jon is a fool, of course he is. Maybe his doppelganger was right, as much as it pains him to say it. He  _ should  _ be nicer to Martin. And he’s been trying to, recently, but it’s not enough. Maybe he should even apologize, even though the thought makes his stomach churn. He’s never been good at communication in any way, shape, or form. But he should try, for Martin’s sake. 

He smiles at him from his side of the table and Martin smiles back, bright and lovely and tooth-gaped and Jon feels a hollow feeling swell between his ribs. 

He owes him as much.    
  
  
  



	14. COPS AND ROBBERS

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of my knowledge of cops comes from The Sims 4: Get To Work Extension Pack so I’m very sorry for the thousand or so inaccuracies shoved into four pages

When Basira became a cop, she was thinking of something along the lines of helping people,  _ actually  _ helping people. Busting impossible cases left and right and defending the innocent. She would be different _ ,  _ she would be the one to finally do the trick.

Too bad people fucking suck. 

Instead, she draws the short end of the stick and gets stuck chasing a couple of petty thieves. Most JMarts in the area and a couple of Tescos recently reported two men, one particularly tall and broad with a noticeable white stripe on his hair, the other one short, blind, and scrawny with an array of very distinct scars in his… everywhere. They have apparently been shamelessly stealing petrol for weeks and show no signs of stopping any time soon. They wouldn’t be hard to find, considering their physical descriptions, but Wednesdays are Macaroon Day and Basira really wishes she had gotten to stay at the station. If she’s quick enough she might actually get back just in time to snatch a couple.

She spots them within two minutes of entering the store.

The two of them are very suspiciously loitering in front of the gas aisle, the larger one seemingly keeping watch as the shorter one tries and fails at being sneaky as he grabs a canister and puts it inside a ratty backpack. It’s like they’re not even trying. 

She sighs and puts on a professional face for these idiots “Gentlemen,” She says as she approaches.

The tiny man immediately drops a canister on his foot at the sound of her voice and his partner looks like he’s considering grabbing the merchandise and just setting himself on fire.

“Ba—  _ um _ , morning. Ma’m. Officer. Uh,” White Stripes stammers as he gives her a pained, awkward smile.

She sighs. Why even bother? “You’re under arrest.”

Scars stops massaging his injured foot to frown at her. “For  _ what? _ ” He bluffs. 

She looks at the backpack very clearly filled with unpaid merchandise and crosses her arms.

White Stripe sighs, defeated. “Yeah, that’s fair,” He says. Scars huffs and steps closer to his partner. Upon closer inspection, he actually looks vaguely familiar, but Basira can’t exactly place where she could’ve seen him before. He’s not exactly the type of character you’d forget. She’ll put a pin on it.

She takes out a notepad if only to have something to do with her hands. She’ll remember anything they have to say regardless. “Names?”

“Alexander Keats,” Says Stripe.

Scars fidgets with the temples of his heart-shaped pink sunglasses. “Jon…. _ ny… _ Blackwood…?”

Ah. So they’re lying. Great.

“Right. You’re coming with me.”

(She sneaks a Snickers Chocolate Bar in her jacket pocket as they leave the store.)

The whole way to the station she racks her brain trying to remember where she’s seen “Jon...ny Blackwood” before but keeps getting distracted by all the hush-hush whispering going on between the two of them in the back. Stripe keeps side-eying her and Scars periodically begins shaking his hands, frustrated. Hopefully, they’re not thinking of making a run for it or something. That wouldn't turn out nicely for them and it’d be a shame to go through that just for some stupid petty theft. They’re lucky, really, that it’s her who they sent and not Daisy.

A part of her wishes Daisy was here. She really wants macaroons. 

Once at the station she shoves them into a small jail cell until someone figures out what to do with them. Probably call a friend or something. She’ll definitely need to talk to them later and get their real names. Put them in the system and properly interrogate them. She  _ should  _ be doing that now, but see, she’s busy.

(There were no more macaroons left. Fucking Olivia shoved the remaining ones into her bag according to Amelia)

Smiling tightly at her supervisor she grabs a computer under the pretense of putting the new town thieves in the system. No, she won't be doing that. Not yet. Instead, she looks for The Magnus Institute’s case file. An incident happened on the premises recently. Two injured. The body of the former Head Archivist was found. And there’s one main suspect. 

Jonathan Sims. 

He’s the same man sitting in that shitty jail cell. But that makes no sense. The man in the picture looks younger and considerably less scarred. She was  _ there  _ when they dragged his holey, bleeding body from The Archives. Those wounds should still be healing and yet they look old and pale on his face and arms. This picture was taken just a few months ago. There is simply no way he could’ve gained all of those injuries, become blind, in that time span and be out on the streets already, stealing petrol from JMarts and Tescos and living his best life. 

These are not the same man. They cannot be. A twin, maybe? 

She goes to ask. Politely. Friendly, as she is. 

(They’re gone by the time she goes back to the cell. No one knows how. No one cares. They were just a pair of petty thieves. And potential arsonists, too, but they’ll burn that bridge when they get to it. Pun  _ not  _ intended.)

  
  
  


The next week she’s sent to The Magnus Institute. 

The place looks considerably better than all those weeks ago. Not a single worm in sight, which is a significant improvement from last time. But Basira is not here to look at the scenery. She’s looking for The Head Archivist.

She knocks on the flimsy wooden door to The Archive, just for politeness’ sake, really, and enters before someone can answer. Inside there’s the same dusty open office she remembers. Last time she only managed to get a quick look in passing, but she does notice it does not look any more well-lit during the day, being a basement and all, which is pretty annoying. There are two people sitting inside: a tall, fairly attractive man covered in bandages and a slightly shorter woman in a peach turtleneck. They turn to her, somehow achieving the perfect balance between bored and panicked. 

Before they can start fumbling about, a third person enters the room carrying three cups of tea.  _ Stripe _ . Only that there’s no white stripe on his hair. He looks younger, with a clean-shaven face and neatly trimmed strawberry blonde hair. When he looks at her there’s suspicion in his eyes but no recognition. 

This is also not the same man she arrested on a JMart a week ago. 

She clears her throat. “Officer Basira Hussain. I’m looking for The Head Archivist,” 

They mutely point at a closed door to her right. She nods. 

(Approach. Knock. Enter.) 

Inside sits the man from the picture. He, too, is covered in bandages which is what is  _ expected.  _ He looks tired and it takes him a good ten seconds to acknowledge her after she announces her presence. He also doesn’t recognize her, she  _ knows  _ that he doesn’t. Basira has never met this man before, not since the incident at The Institute. 

Basira came in looking to solve two mysteries. Instead, she spills her guts in a mahogany desk in front of a possible murderer. 

At the moment, it had felt like the most natural thing to tell this man about Section 31. Yes, you can have my story. Just don’t tell. But now that she’s away from that cryptic little basement she knows that was not a normal meeting. There was a buzzing, a faint fog at the back of her skull. It felt like nothing, words slipping out like water. 

She doesn’t like that. Not one bit. Basira makes a halfhearted promise to occasionally deliver Gertrude’s tapes if only to keep Sims from squirming away and gets the hell out of these as soon as possible. 

(The two men from the store were nowhere to be found.) 

She would think that she hallucinated the whole thing a week ago but Basira is not a loony. No, something fucked up is going on at The Magnus Institute. She needs to call Daisy.


	15. EVERYTHING IS CAKE

It’s ridiculous, really, that a creature who works in lies and deceit is Sasha’s main source of information. But a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do, and if that’s having coffee with The Distortion, she’ll take it. 

Sasha’s been having frequent meetings with Michael. Occasionally, he’ll give her a very useful piece of information. Most of the time his answers are vague at best and arguing Pugs are a crime against nature at best and a manifestation of “Viscera” (?) at worst. She will say, he makes a compelling argument. But most importantly, Sasha’s learned there are monsters in this world, which, duh. But they’re not _arbitrary_ , they fit into some sort of categories and Sasha’s going to find about each and every one of them until they’re all in their neat little color-coded boxes. This is what she has so far:

  * It Is Lies (Michael but also _not_ Michael? Very Reassuring given their relationship)
  * I Do Not Know You (Possibly what killed Danny and herself in an alternative reality. Something about clowns, maybe?)
  * Too Close I Cannot Breathe (Evil Dirt (???))
  * Worms (Evil Worms)
  * The Coming End That Waits For All And Cannot Be Ignored (The Coming End That Waits For All And Cannot Be Ignored, obviously)
  * Viscera (Pugs?)
  * The Alone One (Depression but make it Actively Evil)



She knows her list is far from complete, that she’s missing so many things. But Michael has been far more helpful than The Future Gang ever pretended to be. As much as she feels some sort of weird, misplaced fondness toward them, they haven’t been very helpful. She’ll say, she can only trust Michael as much as she can trust them. None of them are _normal_ . They are chin deep into the waters of weirdness and to be honest, Sasha wants to do more than dip her toes in. The key to security is knowledge, after all. Prentiss might have been a case of wrong place, wrong time but she seriously doubts it. The Institute fits into all of this somehow, she _knows_ it, but she can’t keep jamming that puzzle piece blindly until it fits somewhere. She needs to build the rest of the puzzle around it first. She needs to be prepared, and really, she just wants to _know_. The world is so much bigger than she imagined and she can’t wait to carve it into pieces and eat it like cake. 

She sips her coffee. It burns her tongue. Also, she’s half-certain it’s not actually coffee. 

“Were you ever human?”  
  
“I was, at some point, and I wasn’t,”

She nods. Classic Michael answer. She’ll put a pin on it. Still, it’s fascinating that a person could become, well, _Michael_. How does something like that even happen?

It reminds her of something.

“What about The Time Travelers? How connected are they to the, uh, monsters?

“Monsters are an extension of the Powers. Like an extra limb,” He wiggles his fingers which Sasha knows are far sharper than they appear. 

She types it into her phone’s note app. Got it. “Right. Are they connected to the ‘Powers’?”

He hums, actually unsure for possibly the first time since they began meeting. The noise makes her ears ring. “Not anymore. At least from my understanding. I did not exist anymore wherever they’re from. Or perhaps I did. Self is complicated,”

Cheers to _that_. Still, that’s a lot. Michael can cease to exist? The Time Travelers were associated with The Powers? How? You can stop? Which Powers? Is it any of the ones she knows about? 

(She thinks of the hollow she knows exists behind Future Jon’s pink heart-shaped sunglasses. She thinks of the constant feeling of being watched when she’s in The Institute. She thinks she thinks she thinks—)

Sasha shakes her head. Talking to Michael for too long makes her dizzy but she still has so many questions. 

“Do you eat?” 

“I can if I want to,” 

She began talking to Michael with the sole purpose of chasing information, that much is true. But she can’t say she hasn’t come to enjoy his presence. Michael’s… eccentric. _Fun_. She likes him, to a certain extent. Maybe he could even be a friend, one day, if he doesn’t kill her first. 

“Opinion on pineapple pizza?” 

“It’s the superior of the toasted dough slices,” 

“I knew you were a real one,”

  
  
  


After her meeting, Sasha goes to visit Tim. He only goes to The Institute for about half of the week these days, still recovering after having dozens of worms dig into his skin and all. She brings pizza (half extra-cheese, half Hawaiian). 

Sasha unlocks the door of Tim’s apartment with her spare key to find him sprawled on his bright purple couch tearing up over The Great British Bake Off. 

“Mick what are you _doing!?_ You can’t ice that Genoese sponge while it’s still warm, oh my god!” He cries. 

She sits beside him and kicks her shoes off. “Hello to you too,” 

“Sasha! Just in time to comfort me with pizza. What would I do without you?” 

“Perish, probably,” 

“You’re absolutely right, which is why you must never leave me,” He sits up and reaches for an extra cheesy slice. 

“What are you going to do? Lock me up in your cupboard?” 

“Hey, no spoilers,” 

Sasha wants nothing more than to tell Tim about Michael, about everything she’s learned. But she knows he doesn’t want to hear about it. Not now. Now while he’s still covered in bandages and going to physical therapy. And it’s not like he approves of her sources, either. None of the guys do. It’s fine. She’ll get there. But for now… 

“What is Mick doing, again?” 

“Oh my god, you won’t believe this!” 

She grabs a slice of pineapple pizza, much to Tim’s disgrace, and settles comfortably beside him on the couch. 

Spooky things can wait.

  
  


A few hours later Sasha wakes up to a bang. She bolts upright in a second and wipes out the drool on the side of her mouth in a panic. 

“Fire extinguisher!” She gasps and then proceeds to open her eyes. 

“Oi, that’s my line,” 

On the door, looking like he ran all the way over here, stands Martin. Not a worm invasion, then. Good. Good. 

“Oh. Hello, Martin. Are you alright?” 

He groans. “No! I’m not!” 

Oh crap. What is it? Is Prentiss back? Is it another monster? Did they finally find out about his clearly fake CV and fire him? 

Tim pats the couch. “Come here, Marto. Tell us what happened,” 

Martin closes the door behind him and drags his feet toward the couch, slumping down on it. 

“I— god, this is so stupid,” He whines behind hands. 

“Nonsense!” Claims Tim. 

“It’s okay, Martin. You can tell us,’’ 

He looks up at them, face red and eyes glassy. 

“Jon made me samosas! And they were _delicious!_ ” 

Well, that’s definitely not what Sasha was expecting. Definitely less fatal than she had anticipated. 

Tim gapes at him. “Boss man did _what!?_ ” 

“I— it’s because I made him pierogi a few weeks ago when I came over and today I went to his apartment and he- he made me samosas!?” 

“There is literally so much to unpack here I don’t even know where to start,” Tim gapes. “You made him pierogi!?” 

“I’m— I also made you guys pierogi,” He cries, retreating back behind his hands. 

“Yeah, but you didn’t come to deliver it personally to us. Sasha, did Martin bring pierogi to your apartment?’’ 

“He did not,” Sasha confirms. 

“Precisely my point!” 

“You guys are the worst,” 

“How often is this happening, Marto? Weekly? Daily? Are you staying over?” Tim wiggles his eyebrows. 

“ _No!_ I’m not! I just come over a few times a week— it doesn’t matter!” 

“Oh I think it does matter,” She gently nudges at Martin’s side with her elbow. “I didn’t know you guys were that close,” 

“I mean, _maybe?_ I don’t know!” 

“Following Future Martin’s footsteps, I see,” Tim joins in and aggressively nudges at Martin’s side. 

Sasha thinks she can almost see steam leaving Martin’s face. “Don’t bring _that_ up!” He gasps. 

“You know what they say about gays,” Begins Tim. “First you go to their apartment, then you cook for each other, and finally you get married,” 

“Literally nobody says that, Tim,” 

“No, I think I’ve heard it,” Sasha nods. 

“Okay, fine. Fine! I think we’re… friends,” 

“Friends?” 

“Yes, _friends_ ,” 

If she’s being honest, Sasha’s never understood Martin’s infatuation with Jon. Sure, he’s cute in a rat sort of way, she guesses. But he’s always been unfairly harsh toward Martin, more than he ever was with Tim and Sasha. Since the beginning, Jon has blamed everything wrong at The Archives on Martin, like him accidentally letting a dog in that first day cursed the place. 

That is, until Prentiss happened. Now, Jon is weirdly attached to Martin. They definitely bonded over maniacally exploring The Tunnels together. But there’s something else. Something changed in Jon. He’s less defensive, less pretend-professional. Sasha thinks she likes him more this way. 

“Why did I even come here?’’ 

‘Because you _looove_ us,” Tim coos. 

“If that’s what you want to believe,” 

“Marto!” 

She’s not worried, not really. If The Future Gang are anything to judge by, Jon and Martin will be just fine. Sasha just hopes she and Tim will be, too. 

She looks at her friends. Martin, his face redder than a chili, and Tim laughing even though she knows his body aches. If they can’t help them, that’s fine, too. Sasha will just do it herself. 

  
  
  
  
  
  



	16. PLAN #— YOU KNOW WHAT JUST FORGET IT

They need another plan. _Soon_.

He and Martin have already been in this timeline far longer than anticipated. Yes, he’ll say they got complacent. Too distracted by things like sleeping and running water and veggie burgers. They messed up bad. Catastrophically, even. They can’t even retry their original plan. If they do as much as _look_ at any JMart in the country they’re going straight to jail again. God, he can’t believe they got arrested by Basira of all cops in London. That could’ve gone so terribly wrong in so many ways. But he and Martin didn’t make it through what was probably years of an Eyepocalipse without knowing how to sneak out of a sticky situation (especially after That One Corruption Domain, that had been _quite_ sticky. The slime took weeks to completely come off). All the gas they had poured had dried up by the time the building was deserted, completely useless. They only had one or two canisters left. For emergencies, they decided. They aren’t going to be burning any Institutes with two fucking petrol canisters.

Jon sighs as he pours himself more of Sasha’s vodka they grabbed from the break room.

He and Martin sit beside their base in the tunnels on a pair of lawn chairs they “borrowed” from someone’s house. Jon can feel the weight of the bottle getting lighter and lighter, there must barely be any alcohol left at this point. Shame. He wonders if Sasha has another one hidden away somewhere in The Archives. He could ask, hypothetically, but he and Martin haven’t really talked to the younger Archive staff since Prentiss happened (they could have died again, they could have—). The tunnels are quiet except for the gentle sway of liquid. The two of them haven’t spoken since they sat down. Jon has been too miserable to say anything, but he also can’t bear long stretches of silence. And they need to plan.

He clears his throat. His tongue feels heavy. “We fucked up,”

Martin snorts. “We fucked up,” He agrees. “What now?”

Jon licks his lips. They’re dry. Sluggishly, he wonders if Martin would like to— “I was thinking,”

“Yes?”  
  
“We could blow the Institute up with Gertrude’s plastic explosives. The ones at her storage unit,” 

Martin hums lazily. “That’s easy enough. Do you remember where the key is?”

“Under a floorboard in my office,”

“Brilliant,” Martin grabs the bottle, his fingers lingering on Jon’s for a second, and he hears him pour a considerable amount of vodka into his little plastic cup. “We’ll go tomorrow,”

  
  


They haven’t been this hungover since they killed Jonah Magnus and burned The Panopticon. The irony does not escape them. 

They hang around The Institute during the day, mostly keeping to themselves as the younger staff buzzes around with paperwork and statements they are yet to steal. For the first time, Martin seems thankful for the low lighting of the place, but ultimately it does little to help their splitting headaches. And he’s fairly certain the assistants were onto them. When after-hours come and The Institute finds itself hollow again (and they don’t fail to notice how his and Martin’s younger selves left together. Whatever _that_ is about. Possibly more plotting, Jon assumes. But still, very interesting. He can’t help but think that is something he himself would have never done so soon past Prentiss’ attack. So what changed this time?). They sneak into Jon’s office and he directs Martin to the loose floorboard. He still distinctly remembers it, how satisfied and anxious and hungry he felt when he finally turned out to be right about one thing, that he had been clever enough to pick up such a small detail from a tape recording. Now, he just feels stressed. 

He won’t say that he misses his office. Not after all the dusty, sleepless nights he spent there, afraid and cold and isolated from his coworkers and/or pseudo-friends in this cramped little office, stacked boxes filled with nothing but terror all around him. But he can’t deny the familiarity of the space doesn’t draw him in. Hazy memories of tea and surprise birthday parties, drifting warmly on the back of his skull. But those memories are few and far between compared to how many times he got stabbed in this office or otherwise threatened. (He has actually only been stabbed twice in here but it’s still weird that it happened more than once. At least Daisy was creative enough to take him to the woods before slitting his throat open). 

He hears the creak of the floorboard being pried open, and then, 

“There’s nothing here,” 

“What? No, that can’t be. There’s supposed to be a key and a laptop there,” 

Martin pauses for a second. “You don’t think…” 

Ah, fuck. 

“I—’’ He groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. Must he be this infuriating? The fact that Martin put up with him for this long is a miracle. “It’s alright. We’ll just— we can ask him for it,” He suggests. 

“And you think that will work?” Martin asks flatly. 

“I— _well_ ,” 

“I hate you,” Martin sighs, aware that Jon knows he doesn’t mean it. 

Jon, on the other hand, is starting to see why nobody liked him back then. “I hate me, too!”   
  


Turns out, Sasha did have another bottle stashed away in the storage room. It was half empty and it seemed like it had been there for a while, probably forgotten, but it did its job alright. 

They fell asleep in The Archives. 

“Had fun last night, did you?” Sasha’s voice asks early in the morning. Too fuzzy to tell from how far away. Too fuzzy to _anything_ , really. His back hurts, his head is pounding, and he wants to throw up. It’s almost reminiscent of the nights he spent asleep atop his desk, but Jon is getting the feeling that he and Martin are getting a bit too old for this. Though, if he’s being entirely honest, he’s not actually sure of how old they are at this point. 

He’s far too nauseous for these types of questions. Jon groans in response. 

“Say,” Martin mumbles, half-draped on top of Jon. “You wouldn’t know about a key, would you?” 

“Like— Mary Keay?”  
  
“No, like— oh, forget it,” He turns and buries his face on the back of Jon’s denim jacket. Escaping the light, he imagines. Jon is tempted to make a joke about the perks of being blind but he’s half-sure that if he opens his mouth he’ll immediately spill his guts and some.

“Right,” Sasha says, unphased. “You guys know if Jon is in yet? I have something for him,” 

Wait a minute. That could actually work. 

“I got it!” Jon lifts himself off the table enthusiastically, accidentally throwing Martin off him and onto the floor in the process. 

“Jon, _what—_ ” 

He throws up on the table. 

“Are you sure this is going to work?” 

“Better than nothing,” 

“I never knew you’d be susceptible to bribery, Jon,” He teases. 

“Well, Martin-Dear, we all have our weaknesses,” 

They walk into The Archives with a basket stacked full with stolen statements, the ones he and Martin deemed safe enough to not get his past self immediately killed or thrown off a ten story building. Along with a signature Martin Blackwood cup of tea just to _really_ lay it on thick. 

“Good morning,” Martin announces their presence cheerfully and opens the door to The Head Archivist office. 

The distinct sound of a running tape recorder makes Jon’s head hurt. It used to be white noise to Jon’s ears, as noticeable as the soft padding of feet or lazy scribbling on a page: just another part of everyday life. The same way that muffled screams on the other side of the wall can become mundane after listening to them for long enough. Nothing suspect about it, nothing evil. But he hasn’t been able to stand the sound of them since he cut his connection to Beholding, the once soothing rolling of the tape in the cassette now as jarring as bloody nails on a chalkboard. He knows, though, that his past self is most likely completely unaware of it. 

“What do you want?” He groans. 

He gives his best fake smile. His past self can probably see right through it, having seen it enough times reflected back to him in the mirror. But that’s not the point. “We come bearing gifts,” 

He sighs. “Good Lord, what did you _—_ ’’ The firm sound of Martin’s steps. The noise of the basket being placed on the wooden desk, rustling the papers within. The soft clink of a mug. The sound of his past self’s teeth as his mouth snaps shut. 

Jon tries to not laugh. 

“Surprise,” Martin says flatly. 

“What is this?” Past-Jon asks after a beat. 

“We realized our actions might have been a bit… overdramatic,” Martin snorts. Jon bites his tongue to not quip back at him. “And decided it was only fair we return to you _your_ statements,” 

“Right. What do you want?” The statements rustle again as the basket is seemingly moved. 

“They key. We just need you to give it to us and we won’t bother you again. Please,” Martin states. 

Past-Jon clears his throat. “I— I don’t know anything about any key,” 

Oh for the love of— “The key under the floorboard in this office. We _know_ you have it!” 

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you two are talking about. I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” 

“Are you s _—_!?” 

“I said _leave_ ,” 

Jon scoffs, ready to continue arguing with, well, himself. But Martin takes him by the arm and leads them away. “Let’s go, we’ll find another way,” 

Their voices echo in the tunnels. 

“Why are you so _stubborn!?_ ” 

“Oh like you’re any better!” 

“It’s not _my_ past self making this mission impossible!” 

That’s an idea. “Do you think he’d _—_ ?” 

Martin huffs. “No, he wouldn’t go behind young Jon’s back. Not if they’re that close already,” 

He sighs and leans his forehead against Martin’s chest. The alive beat of his heart does little to ease his stress but is always lovely to listen regardless. “Why must you be so loyal?” 

“Forgive me, I’ll make sure to betray you next time,” 

He laughs. “That would be ideal, yes,” 

A beat. Another one. “I can’t believe he lied to our faces and then still _kept the statements_ ,” 

“What a wanker,” 

“That’s literally you, Jon,” 

“I’m aware. Why did you like me in the first place?” 

They’ve had this conversation before. Still, Martin puts on his Jon Voice™ and says “Have I seen a _dog_ ? What, like in _general?_ ” 

“You liked me because I’m dumb. Yes, yes, I know,” 

“I liked you because you were cute and endearing and I saw right through your fake-professional facade. Because I saw how hard you were trying and how much you cared, ” A pause. “And because you seemed pretty unattainable, too,” He adds. 

“Am I not unattainable anymore?” He teases. 

That earns him a loud kiss on the crown of his head. “Nope, you’re right here,” 

_(Thump-thump. Thump-thump.)_

“What are we going to do now?” 

“We’ll get the key,” Martin assures. “Even if we have to kidnap you,” 

“Baby’s first kidnapping, I can’t wait,”   
  



	17. VANDALISM IS A VALID COPING MECHANISM

Martin is going to fucking lose it.

First and foremost, of course, comes the subject of _worms_. He and the others have all been doing relatively better after a few weeks, but Martin doesn't think he’ll ever be able to look at another worm again and not feel like his very lungs are writhing with them. As it turns out, being attacked by a horde of maggots being led by the same terrifying lady who harassed you for days can be, in fact, traumatizing. Just a little bit. It’s not like Martin isn’t messed up enough as it is, oh no, the world had to go and sprinkle in a little bit of supernatural trauma, too. Just to spice things up. Tim looks fine, on a surface level. He and Martin have been spending more time together while Sasha goes off and recreates Interview With A Vampire or something. He keeps making the same jokes and shooting the same finger guns and cuffing his jeans because he claims the scars make him look hot (and Martin won’t deny he does somehow manage to pull them off). But he can see the pain in his eyes when he moves too suddenly, the way he now subtly flinches away from loud noises, and how he doesn’t laugh as hard at his puns anymore. He’s trying, he really is. But things will never be exactly as they once were.

And Jon is, well.

Jon is another whole Wikipedia article of his own. 

Martin still can’t stop thinking about The Future Gang and their, well, their— their _relationship_ . I mean, for fucks sake, from what kind of deranged crackpot universe were they spat out from that he and Jon not only commit murder but also get— get _engaged!?_ And it’s not going to happen in this timeline, obviously, Martin _knows_ that, but the fact that it happened in any timeline at all is absolute insanity. What is Martin even supposed to do with that!? There’s no YouTube tutorial or self-help book that teaches how to cope with your future self coming back in time and announcing that, hey, he’s engaged to the pretty boss you have an ill-advised crush on. (And are they—oh god— _in love?_ Christ, they must be, Martin has seen them— seen them interact and exist around each other. They must be. Jon in love with him. What the fuck. He wants to throw up.)

And on top of _that_ pile of cherry-flavored absurdity Jon, his Jon (god, no, don’t call him that!), had to go and decide to be— nice to him!? _Why now!?_ Why couldn’t he simply keep on being a priss? But no, the absolute jerk apparently made the executive decision of being civil. Inviting Martin into his flat, talking to him without noticeable disdain, eating his food and cooking for him in return. Giving him— giving him smiles! (Congratulations, Martin! You got to see the bloody _dimples_. Are you satisfied!? Yes, actually, they’re adorable, thank you very much.) The reason he barged into Tim’s apartment with only a ten-minute notice wasn’t because of the samosas— well, it was in part because of the samosas. They were, in fact, delicious— but because Jon, against all odds, apologized to him. It was stiff and awkward and it sounded like someone was pulling his teeth out without any sedatives. It was, by all means, a disastrous apology, but god doesn’t that just make it sweeter? The way his voice reverted to his fake stuffy accent and he kept adjusting the temple of his glasses as if trying to hide the earnestness in his eyes behind the reflection of the glass?

Martin still remembers the day he met Jon. How lost and stuffy he looked on his too-big office chair, the endearing confusion in his voice when Martin asked him about the infamous lost dog and stammered _“In – In general, or?…”_ That, right there, is what did it. Martin had never been so _stupidly_ charmed before. And sure, Jon then proceeded to threaten to fire Martin. And then he continued to act like a clown for months afterward. But every time he tried— and god did Martin try— to hate Jon, his mind always wandered back to that first day at The Archives. So yeah, Martin had a dumb crush on his boss. He could cope with that just fine. And then he and Jon began tunnel-diving and staying late at his office bouncing ideas off of each other. Jon gradually became more amiable to Martin, he even _listened_ to him occasionally. Martin assumed it was simply because Jon now had bigger issues than Martin misfiling a statement, but that did nothing to ease the pumping of his heart at alarming rates. At the end of the day it was fine. Martin is the type of person who enjoys having crushes. Distracting himself with silly fantasies he expects nothing from, caring about a person because he chooses to, writing cheesy poetry nobody has to read. It’s a feeling that belongs to him and him only. It’s nice. 

But then Jon had to go and ask if Martin was a _ghost_ while an actual flesh hive pounded at the door. And just like that, Martin was falling hard with no brakes. 

And he cannot fucking deal with this! 

But he doesn't have time to freak out, does he? Because there are two murderers on the loose and those murderers happen to be he and Jon, from the future. And the supernatural is very much real and not quite friendly. And Gertrude Robison is— well. And now that police lady is coming about to visit Jon and do god-knows-what. Definitely _not_ what Tim’s bonkers theory implies. Martin doesn’t trust her— what? He can simply not like people, too! He just thinks she’s suspicious, alright. 

(Who is he kidding? He’s always known he’s had a jealous streak. He’s working on it. Sort of.) 

“There she goes again,” Tim sings once the door to Jon’s office closes behind Officer Hussain. 

“Good for her!” Martin exclaims. “I don’t care. She’s just— she’s doing police stuff. I don’t care,” 

“I didn’t know we were calling Jon “police stuff” now,” Tim smirks. 

Martin feels his face burn all the way to the tip of his ears. Nope. He’s not thinking about That during work hours. None of it. _“Tim!”_

(He does wonder, how did his future self do it? What part of his bitter, greedy soul did he have to burn for Jon to talk to him in that honeyed voice with so much affection? For _anyone_ to talk to him like that?) 

He can’t keep going down this train of thought lest he crash against a railroad sign. “Have you seen the Future Gang?” 

“Actually, yeah, like an hour ago. Is it me or have been looking like they’re...” 

“Like they are moping? Yeah, I thought the same,” 

“I do wonder how the attack went in their timeline. You think they’d tell us?’’ 

“Most likely no,” 

“Not even if I say please?” He asks and bats his ridiculously long eyelashes. 

Martin pauses to consider it. They do seem to have a soft spot for Tim and Sasha. “You’re always welcome to try,” 

“Next time I manage to catch them I’ll ask them,” Tim declares with a smile. “I’ll even record it for Sasha,” 

“She would probably kill for that,” Martin agrees. She’s always after all the juicy details, like every single individual grain of sand is needed to paint a full picture of the shore. 

The door creaks behind them and Officer Hussain leaves, her face as stony as ever. 

Tim whistles. “Seems like Jon doesn’t last a lot,” 

“ _I’m going to make some tea!_ ” He loudly states as he hurries to stand up and nearly pushes the chair to the ground. 

“Are you sure you wanna go inside Jon's office right now? It might be a little m—” Tim calls after him. 

“Shut up, Tim!” 

  
  
  


On average, making tea shouldn’t take much longer than five minutes. Martin, though, spends about twenty minutes hiding his face behind his arms before he takes out the kettle, so the tea takes a tad longer than usual to deliver. He thinks he hears Tim shout out a goodbye but Martin isn’t entirely sure as he was busy having feelings and then trying to aggressively repress said feelings. He does eventually leave the break room with two cups in hand (his with a splash of milk and a bit of lemon. Jon’s about 86% milk with four spoonfuls of sugar, a teaspoon of honey, and a little bit of cinnamon. It took a lot of trial and error to figure out the Thing Jon calls tea.) and notices Tim is not at his desk anymore and his things are gone. 

Martin stands in front of Jon’s office for a second before he does a quick balancing act of the mugs and opens the door using two (2) fingers and one (1) squeaky door knob. Inside, he immediately realizes Jon isn’t behind his desk but rather kneeling on the floor trying to… break the wood? They’re doing vandalism now? 

“Jon?” 

He quickly looks up. “Martin! Brilliant, just in time. Come over here, I need your help,” 

_(I need your help. I need your help. I need your help)_

If Martin has taken a second more to put the mugs on a shelf he’s sure his sweaty hands would’ve dropped them to the ground. 

“Jon, what are you _doing?_ ” Martin questions but kneels beside him anyway. 

“I need to— there’s something under this floorboard. I know it. I’ll explain everything in a moment,” 

This is not even the fifth weirdest thing that’s happened this week. “On three?” 

“One,” 

“Two,” 

“ _Three_ ,” 

They each grab a corner of the wooden floorboard and _pull_ until it snaps out of its place with a little pressure. They toss it aside and lean in to see what lays under. 

“A computer and... A key,” Jon muses. “I wonder what it opens,” 

“Jon, what is this?” 

Jon settles back against his heels and shakes his hands. “I caught it in one of Gertrude’s tapes,” He tells enthusiastically. “Do you think Sasha knows how to hack into a computer?” 

“Obviously. But Jon, what are you talking about? Gertrude’s tapes? Do you mean the ones they found with— you know,” 

Jon sucks his lips in. “Umm. We have a bit to catch up on,” 

“You think?’’ 

Jon gives him an awkward, lopsided almost-smile and Martin is weak. He sighs. “Wanna talk about it over tea?” 

“That would be— yes. I think I’d like that,”

  
  
  


The next day they call up a meeting. 

“I know we got distracted by being attacked by worms and all that,” Tim says. “But we still haven’t gotten to the bottom of Elias’ stoner phase,” 

“We’ll discuss that later,” Jon begins. 

“We have a few things to add to the murder board first,” Martin finishes. “Where’s Sasha?” 

The squeak of a door that actually sort of sounds like a jingle bell echoes through Jon’s office as a yellow door opens from the ground like a neon-colored trapdoor. “Here!” Sasha announces as she climbs out. The door is gone before Martin can even blink it away. 

Jon stares for a second. “Right,” 

They show Tim and Sasha the key and the laptop and promptly add them to the Murder Board, which miraculously survived Jane Prentiss’ attack. Jon explains to them, quite hesitantly, that he’s been slowly obtaining some Gertrude’s tapes through Officer Hussain like he told Martin last night over tea and a shared raspberry cheesecake. Martin knows Jon is afraid, anyone would be in his position, but he’d like to think that they’ll be safer if they trust each other. None of them want to feel alone right now. So even if Martin has to bribe Jon with a million cheesecakes, on god they’ll stick together through this. All of them. 

“I think The Future Gang is looking for these,” Sasha says. “They were asking about a key this morning,” 

Jon frowns. “That’s not ideal. How quickly can you do your hack thing?” 

Sasha flips the laptop on her hands with practiced fluidity. “A few days,” She states. “And figure out what that key is for, too,” 

Tim leans against her side. “Oh dear Sasha! What would we do without you?’’ 

“Not find out what’s in this computer, that’s what,” 

A few hours later, after they’ve discussed the significance of Elias’ stoner phase and returned to their respective tasks, Martin sits at his desk googling how to properly cite a YouTube video. He heard some arguing coming from Jon’s office a few minutes ago, but given that’s how most of his interactions with The Future Gang go Martin didn’t pay it a lot of attention. He figured if it was a murder attempt they would try to be a little more subtle about it. Luckily, nobody was assassinated, and the two of them promptly stomped their way out of The Archives and to god-knows-where. 

Now, he hears the distinct creak, the jarring song of the hinges of Jon’s door. Martin frantically closes the tab as Jon begins to approach him. When he’s beside him Martin slaps on a stretched-out smile and turns to him. 

Martin gulps. Jon is far closer than he’d anticipated, looking down at him and leaning his bony hip against his desk. He wonders, is he too young to experience heart failure? 

“Sasha was right,” Jon whispers. It takes Martin a moment to register the words. “ _They_ have been asking about the key and the computer,” 

Martin blinks. “What do you think they’d want with it?” 

“I— I don’t know. I suppose we need to wait for Sasha to hack her way in,” He huffs, but then his lips tug upwards in a maybe-smile. “They did try to bribe me with this,” 

Jon then dumps a stack of papers into Martin’s desk. Are those— “The stolen statements?” 

“Some of them,” He confirms. 

A part of Martin feels disappointed that he’s no longer living at The Archives, so he can’t eavesdrop on The Future Gang at night anymore. If he knows Sasha, they should be getting some information soon enough. 

He just hopes they get to it before The Time Travelers do.


	18. JON ON JON HOSTILITY

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys ! Sorry for the late update, I was busy and then I took a short break from this fic to write a little something for Asexuality Week. But now we’re back to our regularly unscheduled chapters !

They have been staring at the sticky note for close to ten minutes.

“What does it _say?_ ” Tim squints. Not even his flawless 20/20 vision can help him with this one

“I’m like 80% sure that’s a ‘be’,” Sasha states. 

“A bee?”

“No, a ‘be’”

“A single ‘b’!?”

“No, a—”

“Hullu, what did I miss?” Martin cheerfully announces his sunny presence as he walks into Jon’s office, balancing four mugs of tea.

“We can’t understand Jon’s note,” Tim points at the chicken scrawl on the new sticky note placed in the middle of the Murder Board™.

Martin hands Tim and Sasha their respective cups of tea and places Jon’s atop the desk on a corner where the mess of papers and bitten-down pens doesn’t reach. He then looks at the note for about two seconds and goes: “It says ‘Be right back.’”

“How in the bloody fuc—”

The Archives and The Institute as a whole are, as expected, old structures. Because of this, when someone stomps their way down the creaky, dusty stairs leading to their horrible little basement, everyone down in The Archives feels it. _Everyone_ . It’s a useful warning for when an angry statement giver is on their way to give a complaint about Jon, but Tim has the feeling that might not be the case today. He faintly hears a voice ( _Jon?_ ) yell “—and that is _not_ how I speak!” before the slam of a door. Dust falls on all of their hairs.

“Should we—?” Begins Sasha.

“Nah,” Decides Tim.

A few seconds later their dearly beloved, borderline maniac boss walks into his own office to find all of his assistants already reunited there.

He grunts as a greeting.

Martin smiles, rosy-cheeked behind his mug. “Good morning,”

“What was that?” Tim asks. 

“The other Martin was there,” Is all he says, which actually explains a lot.

“Was he _by himself?_ ” Sasha gapes.

Jon sighs. “No, the other— me was also there,”

That makes a lot more sense. At this point, Tim is beginning to theorize that if one finds himself without the other they’ll both drop dead on the spot. Because of future reasons, probably.

Or maybe that’s just how fiances are. Same outcome either way.

“Wait, where were you?” Sasha questions him.

“I went to Tesco to buy more sticky notes, obviously,”

Tim has long given up on trying to determine when Jon is being sarcastic or not. This time he almost thinks he has it figured it out until Jon dumps a Tesco bag full of colourful sticky notes on his desk. Some red strings, too. Not a brilliant, well-timed joke, then. Just good old lunacy.

“Martin and I ran out last night,” 

Jon begins opening packet after packet of sticky notes and Tim just knows today is going to be a long day.

  
  


Given how different in so many aspects Future Jon is from Normal Jon, Tim had failed to consider the implications of having two Jons in the same space for extended amounts of time. He’s considering them now, though.

“Excuse me,” Both Jons snap when they reach for the same box. It is genuinely unnerving to witness. If it weren’t because they are, well, _Jon_ , Tim would be scared they are about to throw hands. Then again, Future Jon is a murderer, so maybe Jon should watch his back.

The two of them never got along famously which is a testament to how Jon is always his own worst enemy, but lately, the animosity has gotten worse and it is entirely because of the key. Future-Jon knows Jon has the key because Jon is a terrible liar, and Jon knows Future-Jon knows that Jon has the key, and Future-Jon knows Jon knows Future-Jon knows that Jon has the key.

Wait, what was he trying to say?

Point is, things are tense at The Archive. Even the Martin’s keep throwing _looks_ at each other as if saying ‘I know exactly what you two are up to and while I don't entirely blame you I can and will throttle you’. Which is to say they no longer make tea together. A part of Tim feels like he’s about to be pulled over into a Reality Show Confessional (In this episode of _The Jimmy Magma Archives_ : Jon and Martin quite literally hate themselves. Tim, how do you feel about this situation? Well, to be honest, I’m just curious to see if Jon can pack a punch).

At least Sasha is back at spending more time at The Archives now that her new pet project is located there. Tim missed going to her desk and sitting across her neatly laid paperwork with the excuse that “he’s bi” and “can’t sit straight” which almost always gets him thrown into the floor. It’s about the little intricate rituals, you know?

Plus, they have a new list.

“Anything new for ‘The List of Highly Homosexual and Painfully Oblivious Jartin Moments’?”

“I still insist ‘Jartin’ is a terrible couple’s name,”

Tim scoffs dramatically. “And what are we supposed to call them? Fucking _— Jonmartin?_ That sounds stupid,” 

“It’s a work in progress,” Sasha claims, a smile tugging at her coral-painted lips. “And yes, earlier today they said and I quote _‘The orange sticky notes symbolize urgency’_ at the same time and then looked into each other’s eyes for a full ten seconds. I counted. I honestly thought they were about to kiss right there,”

Tim flops on top of Sasha’s desk. “Didn’t The Future Gang say it took them four years to get together?”

Sasha pushes him off her desk, hands warm and strong and a little sharp at the acrylic nails. “Four years and a Fear Dimension, whatever that is, yes. If I have to witness that for four more years I will actually shoot myself,”

Tim winces when his elbow sharply hits the ground. He wonders, would Elias let them carpet The Archives? “Good thing we are not going anywhere this time. We can lock them into a closet until they confess their undying love for each other of something,” 

(Tim jokes about things because if he doesn’t he will cry. He still doesn’t know what The Future Gang meant when they said Tim “blows himself up” but whatever it is, Tim would rather not find out. So he jokes about his and Sasha’s ambiguous deaths instead and hopes every night that she doesn’t get eaten by any spooky tables.)

“Nobody is locking anyone in any closets,” Martin scolds as he comes back from the storage room with a box of statements, all probably drunks and college kids who think they are funny again.

“Marto! Just the man I was talking about!”

“All good things I hope,” He says as he sits down at his desk by Tim’s right. Tim abandons the floor beside Sasha in favour of bothering Martin.

“Always,” He winks. Martin huffs a little laugh. “Say, you and Jon don’t plan on pining for the next four years, right?”  
  
“We’re not _pining_ ,” Martin argues.

“That’s a yes, then,” Says Sasha.

“Hey—”

“No!” Tim exclaims. “There must be a cheat code or something,”

“A cheat cod—”

Footsteps, gentler than this morning but urgent nonetheless, echo through The Archives. The door opens and The Future Gang walks in straight toward one of the shelves, bickering with each other as they absentmindedly flip through papers.

“—uo sure?”

“Okay, that was one time—”

“—Because I remember how you were with time management before your magic google powers and if that’s what we’re dealing with—”

“That’s not fair—”

(Tim puts a pin on “magic google powers” because what the fuck. Does that constitute a level orange sticky note?)  
  
“Morning to you too, Future Gang!” Tim calls out to them. They both snap quiet and turn toward him sharply and Tim almost regrets talking to them. They can just be so bizarre sometimes, not even because of anything in specific Tim could point out, there’s just something about the whole of them. Maybe it’s just because they are doppelgangers of his friends, who knows.

“Morning, Tim,” Says Future-Jon.

“Say, about the pining—”

Martin flushes. “Tim we are not—”

Jon’s office door creaks open. “Alright, what’s with all the noise?”

“Oh nothing, just debating the credibility of this statement—” Martin begins.

“ _You two,_ ” Jon sneers when he sees The Future Gang.

“Jon.” Acknowledge The Future Gang.

Sasha’s eyes widen. ‘‘Should we-?”

Tim shakes his head. “I kind of want to see what happens,”

Before any inter-dimensional brawl can form, though, a small figure burst through The Archives’ entrance. Tim only has about one second to panic before everybody else is panicking.

“I need to see Jo— oh what the fuck,” Melanie King says.

Future-Jon pales like a blood donation gone wrong. “Melanie?”

“Melanie King?” Jon says, looking equally mortified.

“You know, when I said I needed to see Jonathan” Melanie begins. “I only meant one,”

“We can explain,” Future-Martin jumps in. 

Melanie looks between the two Martins, wide-eyed. “You better, otherwise I’m just assuming I died and went to hell,”

“Yeah, that’s valid,”

  
  
  


Future-Martin makes tea. Tim tries to not think about the implications of him knowing how Melanie King, local YouTuber and #1 Hater of The Magnus Institute, drinks tea.

They all settle around Jon’s desk, dragging in chairs from the main office area or, if you have Martin privileges, straight up sitting on Jon’s desk (that could be Tim and Sasha but no, she had to advocate for _chairs_ ). Melanie King looks at them suspiciously behind her mug (it’s pink and has “This Weekend Is Going To Be LIT-erary” written across) which is also very valid.

“So,” Melanie starts. “Why are there two Jons? And two- I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

“Martin,” Both Martins say.

“Right.”

Future-Jon clears his throat. “I know this might be confusing and even unbelievable, but me and Martin— my Martin, come from The Future,”

A pause. Tim wants to rip his hair out but his curls are too fabulous to damage.

Then, Melanie says: “Bet?”

Jon scoffs. “If you’re not going to take this seriously—”

‘‘I am!” Melanie protests. “I mean, sure, it sounds _insane_. But I’ve heard weirder than time travel,”

Future-Jon laughs lightly, almost fond. “I know you have,” He says.

“So, what are you two doing here? Are you preventing The End of The World or something?”

Future-Martin laughs tightly. “No, of course not. This isn’t The Umbrella Academy,”

“You mean like the comics?”  
  
“No, like the Netfl— that’s not the point,” Future-Martin states.

“To be honest, we were hoping you wouldn’t get involved with any of this,” Future-Jon begins.

“At all,” Continues Future-Martin.

“I know you need access to The Library. Tim, Sasha, and Martin can take you there. But please keep the breaking and entering to a minimum,”

“And absolutely do _not_ ever go to India,”

Melanie frowns. “Why would I ever go to India?”

“Brilliant, keep it that way,”

  
  
  


Tim, Sasha, and Martin travel the tall, quiet halls of The Institute toward The Library. Tim has never really liked being out of the offices, walking the hallways almost feels like you’re going to get lost between portraits of whatever Head of The Institute is hung on the wall and neatly organized bookshelves. 

“Isn’t it _weird?_ ” Melanie asks, breaking the silence.

“What, having doubles of our friends?” Asks Tim.

“Having a double of yourself?” Adds Martin.

“It’s fucking bizarre,” Concludes Sasha. “Not to mention, they are hiding something,”

“Lots of things,” Says Tim.

Melanie laughs. “Yeah, I got that vibe,” She says, and then: “I want in,’’

“I’m sorry?” Martin sputters.

“I want in,” She repeats. “Look, whatever they are hiding must be big for them to have travelled all the way from whenever they are from,”

“An indefinite time in the future,” Tim says under his breath.

He and Sasha look at each other, then Martin. They shrug.

“Sure,” Announces Tim.

“Here’s Jon’s address, we’re meeting there tonight. He says _conspiring_ at The Institute is no longer safe,”

“The Time Travelers live in the secret tunnels under The Archives,” Martin explains.

“Rad,” Melanie says, taking Sasha’s slip of paper with Jon’s address written in it. “I’ll see you there, weirdos,”

  
  


Tim brings wine. He figured the only way he would survive a night of conspiracy theories was being mildly intoxicated.

By the time he gets to Jon’s flat Martin and Sasha are already there, seemingly trying to convince Jon pineapple pizza is “not that bad” and that he “should try it and decide for himself”, the sickos. 

“Every time Sasha and Martin bond over having terrible taste take a shot!”

“Rude,” Sasha says.

Jon looks at him, relieved and most definitely not interested in pineapple pizza. “Hello, Tim,”

“Let the party get started, boss!”  
  


“Not a party.”

Tim settles on Jon’s couch which looks and feels like it hasn’t been used in about a hundred years. Jon’s flat as a whole isn’t particularly vividly decorated. It has the couch, a simple coffee table covered in books, statements, and Jon’s chicken scrawl notes, a small telly with no accompanying remote in sight, a tightly packed bookshelf, and a murder board not dissimilar to the one at The Institute make up the living room. If it weren't because of Jon’s paranoid clutter, it'd almost look like a model apartment. But he also notices little things (one of Sasha’s scrunchies, the white cap Tim gave Jon with “Boss.” spelled in black across its front, Martin’s cardigan thrown across the couch) that make the place look like someone actually lives there. Nice, almost.

Tim’s surveying of Jon’s flat is quickly interrupted by a knock at the door. Tim smiles and goes to open.

Jon’s eyes widen. “Tim, wait, we don’t know who—”

He opens the door. “Melanie!”

“Hope I’m not late,” Melanie says, sounding like she genuinely couldn't care less if she’s actually late.

“What is she doing here?” Jon questions.

“To help you figure out what’s going on with your time parasites, obviously,” She says.

“Obviously,” Jon repeats flatly. “Because _you_ would know more than us,”

“Okay!” Martin interrupts, clapping his hands. “Anyone want snacks?”

Due to lack of sitting space, they all end up sitting down on the, thankfully carpeted, floor. From her spot, Sasha takes the computer and the set of keys out of a JMart shopping bag and places them before her. She glances at all of them, almost conspiratorially, and when she stops to look at Tim he wiggles his eyebrows in hopes of making her laugh. Not quite a success.

“Okay,” She starts. “The laptop is Gertrude’s, obviously. It seems like she mostly used it to book trips, like, _everywhere._ She really bled Elias dry on expenses,” She laughs lightly as if telling an inner joke to herself. “I also found a couple of accounts she likely used to buy Leitners,” 

Melanie raises her hand. “What’s a Leitner?” She asks. “And a Gertrude?”

Jon rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to speak but Martin beats him to the punch. “Leitners are like cursed books, there’s a lot of statements about them,”

“Never ends well,” Tim adds, shaking his head. 

“Gertrude was the previous Head Archivist before Jon,” Sasha continues.

“She’s dead. Murdered.” Jon says grimly.

Melanie grimaces. “Who did it?”

“Nobody knows,” Tim says.

Melanie laughs. “You sure the Time Travelers didn’t do it?”

Jon and Martin stop, look at each other, look back at the carpet.

“I—”

“No, that makes no sense. We’d—”

“Yeah, yeah. That’s—no,”

While Jon and Martin grapple once again with the concept of killing a person, Sasha explains: “They didn’t kill Gertrude, but they did kill Elias,”

“Like the owner of the institute? _That_ guy?”

Tim nods many times and then points at Jon and Martin with his head. “They heard The Time Traveler talking about it,”

“Joking about it,” Martin winces.

“Crap,” Melanie says.

“Agreed!” Tim agrees.

“What about the key?” Jon asks.

Sasha grabs the key and pointedly wiggles her eyebrows at Tim. He tried to not laugh out loud. “It opens a storage unit under the name of Jan Kelly,” 

“That must be what They are after,” Martin says.

“But _why?”_ Frowns Jon.

Sasha smirks like she’s been waiting for this all night. “There’s only one way to figure it out,”

“You don’t mean—”

“We need to check out that storage unit,”


	19. THE KEY TO MARTIN’s MENTAL PEACE (AND SAVING THE WORLD, TOO)

  
Martin would say to add Breaking & Entering to his ever-growing lists of crimes but he’s already been there, done that. Anyway, this barely even counts as breaking and entering. If anything, it’s just a bit of light stalking.

According to Jon, his past self should currently be out grocery shopping, which he did once (1) a month, something Martin pointedly chose not to comment on. He and Jon climb four stories up the building’s fire escape. Ironically enough, Martin isn’t fond of fire escapes anymore, doesn’t associate them with safety or escape, not after the several times he found himself trapped in broken down, fire-black imitations of them during his time in The Eyepocalypse. Which is a shame, because he did have some semi-fond memories of being a teenager and sitting late at night on the fire escape while his mother slept, a shitty joint on one hand and a rain-soggy paperback on another while his legs dangled off the edge. Not anymore, he supposes. That is if those memories were actually fond to begin with.

Martin crouches down, about to pick the lock to Jon’s window, when he feels him tense beside him.

“Did you hear that?” Jon whispers.

“Hear what?” Martin asks, and then he notices it. “You don’t think—”

“It makes no sense, but—”

Martin catches the glimpse of a shadow from the corner of his eye and pushes himself and Jon away from the window. This was  _ not  _ part of the plan.

Chatter.

There’s chatter, inside Jon’s apartment.  _ People _ , if you will.

“Jon, why are there people in your apartment!?” He hisses. “Aren’t you supposed to be out on your monthly grocery trip!?”

“Oh for the— I don’t know! I never brought people over!”

“Fine,  _ fine _ , I’ll check if I can see who it is. You could be getting robbed. You  _ better _ be getting robbed,”

“I somehow doubt we’re that lucky,”

Martin almost laughs. He’s not wrong. “Hush, you,”

Martin peaks inside Jon’s apartment to the best of his ability. He can’t see much besides a fake potted plant shoved into a corner, but all the lights seem to be on and he can definitely hear people talking inside.

“Can you see anyone?”

“Just your ugly plastic plant,”

“It was a housewarming gift, I’ll have you know,”

“Yikes,”

Jon chuckles. “Move over, you probably won’t be able to see much from there,”

“You seem awfully familiar with how your apartment looks from the outside,”

“That’s a story for another time, Martin-Dear, now move over,”   


Martin lightly shoves Jon with his shoulder, earning a shove right back, and scoots to the side. From here he can, in fact, get a better look at the living room, where he sees…

“Everyone is here,” He says.

“What do you mean everyone?”   
  
“I mean  _ everyone.  _ Fuck, even Melanie is here,”

“I— Melanie!? Why would she be here!?”

“Shh, they’ll hear us. I don’t know, they could be conspiring or something?”

“When are they not?” Jon scoffs. “We need to do something, they’re going to get in trouble if they continue like this,”   
  
“If they haven’t already,” Martin sighs. There’s a joke in there somewhere about being his own worst enemy but he’s too tired to put any work into it. He’s so very tired. “Hold on, I think I see Gertrude’s computer, which means—”

“They also have the key,” Jon finishes. He leans against the window and presses his ear to the glass, shoving his long hair out of the way. A pencil may or may have fallen out.

“What are you doing?” Martin asks.

“ _ Listening _ ,” Jon grumbles. 

Martin goes to lean in too, because what the hell, but then he sees someone, Tim, turn their way. Martin pushes them down again.

“Ow,” Jon states, not actually in any pain.

“We have to go,”

Jon frowns. “But—”

“We’ll figure something out later but now we need to  _ go _ ,”

Jon huffs. “Fine, but we’re getting takeout on the way back to the tunnels,”

Seems fair enough to Martin. They’re saving the world, after all, some stolen takeout won’t kill anyone. Hopefully. “Deal,”

  
  
  
  


The next day Melanie is there when they go up to The Archives.

“ _ Jon? _ ” He urges.

“ _ I don’t know, _ ” Jon whispers back. He looks like the vein in this forehead is about to burst and Martin couldn’t agree more. 

(There used to be a pleasure in Jon not being able to Know things. Still is, really, but right now Martin can’t deny a bit of omnipotence would be nice.)

“Why is she here!?” He whines, fully aware this is not something Jon can answer. He’s just stressed, nothing has been going their way since they travelled back in time. Hell, nothing had been going their way since the world ended, or  _ ever _ .

Jon flaps his hands unhappily. “I don’t know!”

“Is there a way we can talk her out of, I don’t know, coming here!?”

“I don’t know, I suppose it depends on what the others have told her already. But if she’s been meeting up with them at my old flat…”

“I’m guessing blacklisting her from The Institute is not an option either?”

“Doubt it would do anything,”

Martin sighs, defeated. “Brilliant,” He wriggles his fingers together anxiously. He hasn’t done that in a while. “Most of all we need to keep Elias away from her,”

“We need to  _ kill  _ Elias,”

“Also that,” Martin concedes. 

Past-Jon emerges from his office. And by that, Martin means he peaks from behind the heavy door, his face barely visible from where he’s hiding. 

“Martin, Melanie, in here please,” He orders.

Past-Martin skitters into Jon’s office, avoiding them and giving Past-Jon a small smile as he passes by. Much to Martin’s surprise, that smile is returned. Meanwhile, Melanie grabs some papers of unknown content and smiles at them, wickedly. Or maybe Martin is biased.

“Jon #2, Martin #2,” She acknowledges them as she leaves.

Or not. “She’s doing it on purpose,”

“Obviously,” Jon agrees.

Noticing the tension and their increasingly souring mood, Tim jumps between them and wraps his arms around his shoulders, and then proceeds to immediately drop them (come on, they're not  _ that  _ intimidating). He settles by leaning against the desk Jon is sitting at. Jon unsubtly shoves the statements he was holding out of the way.

“So, this is an important one,” Tim begins. “Do we finally have teletransportation in the future?”

Jon laughs lightly, his mood immediately easing with Tim's friendliness, however forced it may be. “We’re not from that far in the future, Tim,”

Tim mumbles something that oddly sounds like ‘could’ve fooled me’ and calls Sasha over.

The reality of their age is far more complicated than that. According to Jon, if really pressed, he’d say it’s been roughly the equivalent of ten years since the world ended. That isn’t a very reliable estimate, and the world itself stopped in 2019 so did they actually age or do they just look like shit after traversing an apocalyptic hellscape for what may or may not have been a decade? One thing is for sure, no teletransportation was invented during The Eyepocalypse. Which is a shame, because if the world was going to end it could’ve at least done it when they could have a steampunk aesthetic or something going on. But no, the world had to end in fucking 2019. 

“Sasha, honestly, what age would you give them?”

Sasha looks as if she might tell Tim off, but then she relents to what was probably her curiosity rather than Tim’s inevitable nagging. “Well, Martin looks at least forty,”

“Thanks,’’ He says sarcastically even though she’s probably right.

“Jon, on the other hand…’’

He grimaces. “Spare me,”

Sasha smiles. “Mid-forties?”

He laughs. “Sure, let’s go with that,”

“Remember when you lied about your age, Future-Boss?”

‘‘Future-Boss—?”

“Martin did, too,’’ Added Sasha.

Wait a minute. “You knew about that?’’

Sasha grimaces. “I may have taken a peek at your CV and, well, the rest was not hard to guess,’’

He doesn’t even have it in him to be offended. “That’s fair,”

Whatever Sasha’s going to say next is cut off by the jarring creak of Jon’s office door, releasing Melanie and the other Martin with it.

Right, he’d almost forgotten.

Martin smiles, so fake it hurts his cheeks and takes Jon by the arm. “Excuse us for a second,”

  
  
  
  


“I hate this storage room,” Martin scoffs.

“And here I thought this was where you fell in love with me, Martin-Dear,”

“This is also where I was harassed by worms for months,”

“Fair enough,”

Martin’s lips quirk up for a second before he gets back to business, or as much business you can get with your fiance. “Do you think they’re planning on going to the storage unit?”

“If they are, we can follow them there,” Jon suggests. 

“Oh yes, we’ll just jump out of the shadows and go  _ “please don’t mind us, we’re just here to grab some good old plastic explosives and we’ll be out of your hair in no time!” _ ”

“Unfortunately, they’ve left us with no other options,”

He sighs. “You’re right, but we’ll have to keep a very close eye on them and they’re  _ not  _ going to like it,”

“They already don’t like us,”

Martin laughs at that, how did they fuck up this bad?

  
  
  
  


Martin makes tea.

Even after so long, he’s still able to seamlessly fall into the soothing rhythm of making tea. Putting the kettle on, grabbing the milk… it’s almost therapeutic doing something so familiar, so  _ mundane _ . Plus, he knew Jon would kill for a cuppa most days.

Today, though, he’s struggling to relax. Maybe it’s the feeling of impending dread and doom, or maybe it’s the fact that his past self keeps side-eyeing him as he also makes tea like he killed somebody. Which is not  _ wrong _ , per se, but they don’t know the full story yet. Hopefully, they’ll never have to find out.

But then his past self turns to him and blurts out: “How did you do it!?”

“How did I do what?”   
  
“Don’t play dumb, you  _ know  _ what I’m talking about,”

He does, but he’s honestly not entirely sure of how to answer. What is he supposed to say? Oh, easy peasy, I earned Jon’s trust by lying in my CV, then believed in his innocence when accused of murder, helped him plot how to save the world once or twice, ghosted him for a year after he woke up from a coma because of supernatural reasons, proceeded to be saved by him from said supernatural reasons, and then finally we ran away to Scottland for three weeks before the world—

No, that’s too complicated. But then again, is there such a thing as a simple relationship?

“Don’t worry about what I did, you guys are doing fine in this timeline. Better than us, even,” He settles for saying.

His past self frowns. “That’s not helpful at all,” He deadpans.

Marti snorts. Looking back at everything they’ve gone through together, he can’t pinpoint how it happened. It just did. “You could always ask my Jon,”

His past self stares at him, flustered and horrified. “Absolutely no!”

“He won’t bite, I promise,”

“I would literally rather die, thanks,”

“You’re welcome.”

He thinks about asking his past self about the key, about the laptop. After all, it’s  _ himself _ , right? He’d understand, right? And they had understood each other at first, but much of that trust has been lost. He thinks Martin to be some kind of cold-blooded murderer and unless Martin sacrifices some information he’s not willing to share, he knows himself enough to be aware won’t change his mind. It doesn’t matter, as long as they all get to live in peace like they never could in Martin’s timeline. But that won’t happen if they keep interfering! 

No use, now. He and Jon will figure it out. 

Martin pours tea into a chipped mug.

  
  



	20. HAS ANYONE SEEN JON? NO, NOT THAT ONE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the dialogue in this chapter was borrowed from MAG 113 !

Melanie’s initial plan had been to gain access to the spooky library, not investigate evil time travellers, but this works, too.

She’s currently outside The Magnus Institute with Sasha, Jon, and Martin. They’re waiting for Tim, who insisted on driving all of them to the dead old lady’s storage unit claiming it would be a “spooky field trip”. Jon had grumbled at the word choice, saying there was nothing spooky about the situation because he’s incapable of ever feeling joy except for when Martin brings him tea, no wonder they end up being boyfriends in the future or something. She will say, Martin does make some  _ magnificent  _ tea. (That includes Martin #2, but the fact that he never asked her how she drinks it unsettles her. She’s still wrapping her head around how  _ that  _ guy is a murderer when right now the other one seems so painfully nice. Maybe that’s what did it. Melanie would go off, too, if she had to be nice all the time. Sure would explain the absolutely unhinged look in the eyes of Martin #2)

It’s early enough that the sun hasn’t quite risen yet and the cold nips at her skin, fog gently curling around her Doc boots on the ground. The whole vibe, standing outside in the cold with (friends?) while waiting for a ride reminds her of her old mates, of her YouTube channel. But they are not here, are they? The Magnus Weirdos are. She wonders, would they let her bring a camera? Jon probably wouldn’t, but Tim looks like someone who would love being in a YouTube channel. 

She’s abruptly pulled out of her thoughts (Melanie King and The Archivists sounds too much like a band name, doesn’t it?) by Tim obnoxiously honking from his bright blue beaten-up car. She sure hopes they don’t plan on getting on a car chase today because they've got no chance on that thing. It looks like something out of Sasha's Monster Manual: “The Car of The I Do not Know You”. 

“Tim shut the fuck up before someone calls the cops!” Melanie yells, just as loudly.

Tim starts honking to the beat of ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’ “Then hurry up and get in!”

  
  
  
  


The ride to the storage unit is a little tight. Literally. There was just barely space for the five of them, with Tim driving, Sasha on the passenger seat. Jon in the middle of the back seat, and Martin and Melanie to his left and right. Five truly is the lucky number for car rides. They get there one hour later after a quick detour to Starbucks and getting lost at least twice. When they get to the building it’s completely deserted, as it should be considering the time, but Melanie still has a bad feeling in her gut. She feels like she’s being Watched, the back of her neck a neat target for observational sports. It’s not the first time it’s happened, it’s a common enough occurrence at The Institute. She assumed it was just a side-effect of being surrounded by so many paintings of that Johnny Magnus guy, but evidently, it’s not limited to The Institute.

What is she saying? She’s being paranoid. Gosh, a little more and she’ll start sounding like Jon and Martin.

“Are we ready?” Jon asks the group. With the look in his eyes, you’d think he’s about to re-discover The Library of Alexandria.

Tim clears his throat and makes trumpet noises with his closed fists against his mouth. “Lead the way, boss!” 

Jon pauses, looking over all of them one more time. “Right,’’ The croaks. “In we go,”

  
  
  
  


Sasha is the first one to go in. Melanie is sure had Jon stalled any longer she would've simply snatched the key from his hand and opened the storage herself. Maybe locked them out, too. Leave her to have some alone time with those juicy, juicy mysteries. 

Inside, Melanie isn’t sure what she was expecting, but the place is cluttered from floor to ceiling. One misstep and it’ll all come down on top of them, burying them under the mess they created. (Just like GhostHuntUK. Ha ha. Get it? Yeah, it’s not funny.)

“I don’t know why, but I would’ve thought it’d be less... Crowded,” Martin says.

“Well, you know Gertrude,” Jon sighs.

They all hum in agreement. Melanie doesn’t actually know Gertrude. In fact, she’s pretty sure none of them do. Given how she’s dead and all.

Sasha claps her hands together, clearly on the brink of impatience. “Alright, let’s get to searching!”

“What are we searching for, again?” Melanie asks.

“Anything that could be useful for the Time Traveller’s plans,” Jon answers, already turned away and digging through the mess. 

“And what are the Time Traveller’s plans?’’

Nobody answers.

Melanie finds several portraits with the eyes cut out with a daunting precision shoved into a corner, shredded newspaper articles, and equally eyeless dolls. All unnerving stuff, overall, but nothing that would seem worth keeping in a storage unit. Even less something that could be useful for an evil time-travel complot.

Then, she hears Martin gasp. “Is this—!?”

“Don’t touch that!” Jon hisses from the other side of the storage room.

Melanie turns to see what all the fuss is about and sees Martin holding… a book.  _ Uuuuuu _ , woah, spooky.

Martin flushes. “Oh—  _ Oh! _ Right, yes,” He drops the book.

“Let’s… not touch any books we don’t know,” Jon states, looking like he just deactivated a bomb.

“Right,” Sasha agrees and then grabs the book.

_ “Sasha!” _ Tim yelps.

“It’s just… a notebook,” Sasha announces, flipping through the pages.

“It could’ve been a Leitner,” Jon scolds her.

“But it wasn’t,” She sings. “This has names, locations. Some dates. We should probably keep this,”   
  
“Right,” Jon sighs. “But let’s be careful,”

Silence falls over them afterwards, tense like a drawstring about to snap in the dusty air. She really hopes nobody here has a punching reflex. Martin sure looks like the jumpy sort and she’d rather  _ not  _ be in the line of fire of beefy-Mac-sweaters.

After a hot minute of this, Melanie hears clattering over at the back of the storage unit. Absentmindedly, she hopes nobody fell into a curse or something.

“J— Jon?  _ Jon!”  _ Martin shrieks.

Melanie looks over to see Jon dropping whatever it is that he was holding. “Martin!? Are you alright!?”

“Um, you’ll probably want to see this. All of you,”

They scramble between the towers of boxers and eyeless garbage toward Martin where he’s standing in front of what looks like…

“Fuck off!” Melanie exclaims, shocked smile stretching across her face.

“Oh— woah,” Sasha states simply, but Melanie can see a thousand thoughts running behind her eye’s pupils.

“No way,” Tim whispers, looking oddly pale.

Jon sucks in a sharp breath. “Good lord, is that _ — _ !?”

Out of all the things Melanie expected to see here, a fuckton of explosives was not it. “Looks like it,” She tells Jon.

“Why would Gertrude have this? I– Martin, don’t  _ touch  _ it!”

Martin draws his hand back. “Sorry!” He squeaks. 

“Is it going to, you know,” Tim mimics an explosion with his hands. “ _ Psshhhhh? _ ”

“I don’t think so,” Sasha confirms. “Seems stable enough. I don’t know what, well, kind it is though,”

Jon squints down at the devices. “I mean, it looks like… C-4?”

Melanie snorts. “Are you just saying that because it’s the only plastic explosive you’ve ever heard of?” She jabs.

“Well—  _ Martin!  _ Stop trying to touch the plastic explosives!” 

Martin steps back. “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”

“Just put your hands in your pockets, or… something—’’

“Guys,” Sasha snaps everyone’s attention back in place. “This has to be it. Right?

“You don’t think…” Tim starts.

“They want to destroy The Institute,” Sasha states. “That’s why they had all that gas, and why they’re after the key now,”

“Are you sure it’s The Institute?” Martin tentatively suggests. “Couldn’t they be trying to blow up, I don’t know, something else?”

“What else could it be?” Sasha says.

“Should we let them?” Jon says literally out of nowhere.

Melanie might be new here and all, but she had been under the impression that Jon was, like, in love with The Magnus Institute. But now he’s here, standing over a load of explosives, questioning if they should just let it be blown into smithereens. She can tell, by the intense faraway look in his eyes, that a part of him means it. Melanie is reminded that at the end of the day, Jon and Jon #2 are still somewhat the same person.

“Of course not!” Sasha frowns. “Why would we do that!?”

Jon snaps out of whatever came over him. “You’re right, of course. I—” He takes in a sharp breath. “I’m going outside for a moment. I need to— think.”

Jon briskly exits the storage unit, leaving the rest of them standing there absolutely dumbfounded. 

“What the hell,” Sasha whispers. 

“I’m sure he didn’t mean it like  _ that _ ,” Martin says.

But Sasha is already on a roll. “Letting them destroy the Institute!? What is he  _ thinking!?” _

“The same thing as Jon #2?” Melanie chimes in.

“Don’t even. They’re not— they aren’t.”

“But they are,” Tim begins. “We’ve been convinced The Future Gang are evil this entire time, but they’re still Jon and Martin. They wouldn’t  _ do  _ that,”

“People change, Tim!” Sasha snaps. “We are not going to destroy The Institute,”

“I never said  _ we  _ would be destroying The Institute,” 

“Right, just let Future Jon and Martin do it. Should we open the door for them, too? Throw a party?”

“Hey—”

“Um,” Martin starts. “I think I’m gonna go check up on Jon,” He says, and leaves, probably uncomfortable with the energy that’s been created in the storage today. Melanie would go, too, but the only thing worse than Tim and Sasha arguing about their friend’s moral compass is being alone with Jon and Martin and the weird tension they have going on.

Realizing that this is far out of Melanie’s business and probably about more than destroying The Johnny Institute, she decides to step back and check out those eyeless dolls again. Maybe she can take a photo and post it on Twitter, become a spooky Twitter celebrity? Is that even a thing? Can she  _ make it  _ a thing? 

A minute or two later the door to the storage unit slams open. Tim and Sasha cease their little row and turn toward the noise. Melanie stops trying to take a selfie with a possibly haunted artifact. There, stands Martin, dragging along Jon #2 and Martin #2. 

“I found  _ these two _ looming outside,” Martin pants. “And Jon’s gone,”

“What!?” Tim gasps.

Sasha approaches Jon #2 and Martin #2 where Martin is holding them in place by the back of their shirts like a pair of particularly unruly cats. (Given how both Martins are over six feet tall and Jon must be around five feet five, this is a very odd picture to see in a spooky storage unit.) With the look of her face, Melanie was half-sure she was going to grab a cursed bat and play bad cop. She wouldn’t be entirely surprised if Sasha were to join the murder club along with Jon and Martin.

“Did you take him!?” Sasha hisses.

“Literally why would we do that!?” Martin #2 argues. 

“I don’t know, you tell me,” She squints at him.

(It’s only now that Melanie realizes Sasha is like,  _ tall  _ tall.)

“We didn’t take me,” Jon #2 argues. “We were outside discussing—doesn’t matter. We did see him walk out, yes, but we weren’t, well, paying attention to him. The next thing we knew he was gone and Martin was kidnapping us,”

“I would hardly call this a kidnapping by your standards,” Martin #2 quips.

“Stop that,’’ Sasha groans, rubbing her temples like a developing headache. “I think I know how to find him,”

“How?” Both Martins frown at Sasha and then each other.

Sasha ignores the question and heads toward a wall. She raps her knuckles against the rough surface three times and steps back.

Jon #2 looks scandalized. “Wait, Sasha, please tell me you didn’t just—”

Whatever he was about to say washes away from Melanie’s ears with a wave of nausea. She blinks hard until she sees little squiggly lines behind her eyelids because she can’t make sense of what she’s seeing. In front of Sasha where there was absolutely nothing a mere second ago stands a nauseatingly yellow door. What is this supposed to be, R-Rated Monsters Inc?

The door creaks open and the sound is so ugly Melanie wants to stuff her ears with cotton. From behind the door, some— some  _ thing  _ steps out, leaning down to fit under the threshold like a trashy Narnia creepypasta. It’s long and colourful like a stretched out gummy bear and Melanie wants nothing more than to look away.

“What the shit is that!?” She shrieks.

“Hello, Michael,” Sasha greets the thing easily.

“Sasha,” It smiles like a glitch.

“Oh for fucks sake!” Groans Martin #2.

“Michael, we had a deal!” Jon #2 claims.

“Yes we did Archivist. And I don’t believe I’ve broken it. Have I?”

“I— _ hmmph! _ ”

Ignoring the Time Travelers, Sasha tells Michael. “We need help finding Jon. The one from this timeline. Can you take us to him?”

Michal steps to the side, unveiling the nauseating swirl off hallways inside the door.

“Oh fuck no,” Melanie says. “I am not going in there!”

  
  
  
  
  


Melanie does go in there.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Friend, Proofreading This: Woah, Martin sounds very in character for this! :)
> 
> Me: Yeah that’s, that’s the part I got from the transcripts 👁👄👁


	21. A KIDNAPING? AW, GUYS, YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE. NO, REALLY, WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dialogue from this chapter borrowed from MAG 91!

So you’ve been kidnapped, now what?

Well, it’s not something they teach you at Oxford, that’s for sure.

It all happened in a blur. Jon had left the storage unit in a hurry, hands itching to curl around a cigarette he chastised himself under his breath, quick footsteps echoing in the empty hallway. What had he been _thinking?_ Letting the— the interlopers get away with destroying The Institute!? His brain must be officially fried from too many sleepless nights.

But before he could figure out what, exactly, he’d been thinking he felt the press of cold, hard metal against the back of his skull. Jon had never been held at gunpoint before, but if 2 + 2 = 4 and the thing on his head wasn’t a party popper it didn’t take a genius to figure out he was in danger. He felt himself freeze immediately, eyes looking around him wildly though it would be impossible to see whoever stood behind him from this angle. Maybe it was simply his body’s innate reaction to danger. 

Or maybe it was the voice telling him to not fucking move. That would do it, too.

“I— I’m sorry.” Jon stammered, ready to beg, cry, and bargain. He didn’t want to die. Not then, not like that. “I’m— I’m sorry. I— I— I don’t— ”

“Shut up.” 

The next thing he knew he was being thrown into the boot of a car.

Now, as he curls up against the back, thin body bumping into the sides as the vehicle seemingly breaks several traffic laws, he tries to put together what he knows of his situation and maybe, somehow, he can find a way to squirm out of this one. He figured his kidnapper is female or at least female-presenting, they’re taller and stronger than him though that’s not that big of an achievement, they are armed, and he has no idea of what they want from him. Is it money? Because his bank account is essentially barren, the Institute barely pays enough to cover his bare necessities and some. He can’t think of anything this person could want with him, he’s just some underpaid Archivist working overtime at a bad-rep Institution, he’s got nothing to offer.

After maybe half an hour, the car comes to a rough stop, tired shrieking and smoke slipping into the boot and toward Jon’s watering eyes. A few seconds later the hatch opens. Jon finally manages to sneak a good look at his kidnapper. She’s tall and muscular with a tattoo sleeve composed mostly of small flowers. Her eyes are hazel, almost golden, but there is something remarkably dark about them. He looks away before it becomes obvious, but not before noting that she’s still, in fact, very much armed. He whimpers. 

His kidnapper drags him out of the boot by the hair (He knew letting it grow out would be a safety hazard. The _one_ time in his life he chooses aesthetic over practicality— ) and as he tries to blink away tears he realizes they’re in the woods.

God, he’s really going to die, isn't he? He never even got around to adopting a cat before getting killed in the woods. Pathetic. His entire life has been nothing but a series of mistakes after mistakes. A comedy of errors, if you will.

The woman cuts his ropes (oh look, a _dagger!)._ He pauses for a second to rub at his bruised wrists but apparently, his kidnapper is in a hurry because she presses her gun against his back and pushes him to move. Reluctantly, Jon heads deeper into the forest.

(If a tree falls and no one is around, does it make a sound?)

The wind is strong against his ears. It almost drowns everything else out.

(If his grandmother were here she’d tell him to man up and stop whining. But she’s not here anymore, hasn’t been for a long time. Maybe never was, at least not in any way that mattered)

After a minute or two they reach some sort of… not a clearing, per se. But some sort of large gap between the maze trees. If he were to risk it and make a run for it he wouldn’t know where to turn to.

“This is it.” The woman states.

Jon clears his throat. His mouth is dry and he’s out of breath. “So… so what now? You kill me?’’

The woman does nothing but stare at him blankly. It’s a cruel, careless thing but it keeps him pinned in place like a moth against a board nonetheless. “Let’s see the bag.” She orders. 

His brain isn’t doing a very good job at processing words, that with being too busy feeling scared to bits and all. “What?”

“The _bag_.” She points at his backpack with her gun.

Well, if she’s gonna wave that thing around like that. He takes off the small backpack he brought with him to the storage (just in case he found something worth taking with him) and hands it to the woman. She yanks it from his hand and unzips it, rummaging through his things. Is that what this is? An unnecessarily dramatic mugging?

“One wallet, brown leather, no cash. One pocket knife… blunt. Huh. One set of keys to the Magnus Institute. And one tape record—” She lists calmly, almost nonchalantly. But then her face shifts into a frown and Jon begins to shake. “You sneaky little freak!”

Wait, what? He didn’t bring any tape recorders with him unless this is Tim’s idea of a prank. Somehow, he doubts his kidnapper will accept that explanation. 

“What?”  
  
“You want to record this? Alright. I’d have to destroy it anyway.”

He doesn’t understand what’s so upsetting about a tape recorder, it’s just a useless old thing. He has to explain, surely this person can be reasoned with?

“What, I? I, I didn’t—” He starts but the woman grabs her bag and begins looking for something. No, no, no. Not like this. Not like this. “Please don’t shoot me. I— I—”

“I advise you to listen to him, Ms.Tonner.”

Hold on. Is that—?

“ _Elias!?_ ” Jon raises his head and somehow, against all odds, his boss is right there approaching from behind a tree. Had he been hiding there this whole time? What is Elias even _doing_ here? Jon seriously doubts he was just taking a casual stroll through the middle of the woods, miles away from The Institute, when he happened to stumble across Jon’s-soon-to-be-murder-scene. 

“How do you know my name?” The woman (Ms.Tonner?) demands, then sharply turns to Jon. “Do you know him? Did he follow us here?”

“I, well, he’s my boss?” Jon stammers. “But I don’t— I—”

“Oh, please, do not worry about me,” Elias smiles. Why is he smiling? Does he not realize Jon is about to fucking die? “I’m just waiting for some _friends_ ,”

“Friends!?” The man is talking like he’s on his way to play golf with his bureaucrat pals and Jon doubts that's the case. There aren’t golf courses in the area, after all. 

“I’m kind of in the middle of something here, buddy,” His kidnapper informs his boss. This is possibly among the craziest sentences that have historically ever crossed Jon’s mind and he shares his workplace with his time-travelling, murderous future self.

“Believe me, I’m aware, Ms.Tonner. And as much as it pains me to interrupt this little thing,’’ He waves his hand absentmindedly. “there are far more important things happening right now,” Elias explains casually.

“Little thing—? Can someone explain to me what’s going on!?” Jon protests. He proceeds to be very much ignored. Brilliant. He doesn’t have the spotlight in his own kidnapping. 

Meanwhile, Ms.Tonner doesn’t seem amused by Elias’ dismissal of the situation. Jon is beginning to think this kidnapping means more to Ms.Tonner than to Jon. Not that it means anything to him besides future trauma. “Now you listen here—”

But before she can threaten to shoot his fancy shoes off or something equally bad another voice breaks from between the trees.

“Daisy _, don’t!_ ”

This isn’t happening. This has got to be some insane fever dream. Kudos to Jon’s brain, it really outdid itself this time.

And yet he still turns and asks, just to make sure. “Basira!?”

His kidnapper (Daisy?) turns to look at her, too. “Basira!?” She exclaims with surprise, even though Jon already had that covered.

The one and only Basira runs up to Jon’s kidnapper (Daisy!?), completely bypassing Elias. Elias’ eyebrow twitches with what Jon assumes to be annoyance. 

“That’s not the one, you got the wrong Jonathan!” Basira tells Daisy (?), pointing at him like he’s the wrong materials for an assignment due tomorrow and it’s already midnight.

Wait a minute. “You were trying to kidnap my double!?”

(That’s not even half of Jon’s questions. There’s also the matter of how Basira and his kidnapper— “Daisy” know each other, the fact that Basira seemed to be perfectly aware this kidnapping was going to be taking place, the assumption that Basira must’ve also been spying on him and followed them here for her to know he’s the ‘wrong Jon’, what the fuck is Elias doing here once again, and many many more. But that one seemed like the most pressing question)

Daisy at least has the decency to look embarrassed. “How was I supposed to know?”

“Does he look blind, Daisy?”

“Hey, not all blind people wear glasses,”

“That’s not— look, just let him go,”

Jon looks away from the argument for a second, feeling too mentally exhausted to deal with it. Too many things are happening at once and his brain can’t handle all of it. But then he has the need to blink hard, then blink harder because, behind Daisy and Basira, snug between two trees stands Michael’s door like it had been there the whole time. Maybe it was. Great, just when Jon was under the impression this was a full house. Brilliant. Just— brilliant. He wonders, are they all distracted enough to let him slip away? He really, really doesn’t want to be here.

He’s not the only one to notice the door. Daisy startles and points her gun to it like it’s gonna do anything, Basira’s hand starts reaching toward her belt, ready to do the same if needed. Elias looks at his wristwatch like he’s got somewhere to be, the bastard. Jon is starting to feel very little pity for what is yet to happen to him in another timeline.

The yellow door slams open, loudly hitting the tree beside it. As rustled leaves fall, Sasha, Tim, Martin, and Melanie stumble out in a straight line. Michael isn’t anywhere in sight. The door remains open.

“Jon!” Martin exclaims and isn’t he a sight for sore eyes.

“What’s going on here?” Melanie deadpans and then turns around to throw up on a bush.

“Elias!?” Sasha frowns. 

“Officer Hussain!?” Tim gasps.

“Daisy!” Daisy concludes. “Who the hell are you people!?”

Looking like he’s completely ready to single-handedly take on Daisy by himself, Martin points an accusing finger at her. “Who are _you!?_ Did you take Jon!?”

Elias clears his throat impatiently. “Where are they?” He states simply.

Jon has a headache and a half. “ _Who?_ ”

Before someone has the chance to keep ignoring Jon, his future self walks out from Michael’s door along with Martin’s. The door itself promptly proceeds to disappear. Classic Michael. Or so he assumes. Jon has talked to Michael like, once. 

He sees Future-Martin place a hand on Future-Jon’s shoulder and whispers something in his ear, his other hand appears to be holding something inside his aviator jacket. They both step in front of his assistants + Melanie.

“There you are!” Elias says as he looks at them, his aggravatingly friendly smile quickly shifting into a smirk. It makes something in Jon’s stomach sour.

“Elias.” The Future Gang acknowledge bitterly. Future-Jon clenches his scarred fists at the immediate sound of his voice and Future-Martin might as well be plotting Elias’ assassination in his head (he actually might be. Just— don’t think about it.)

“You two are an awfully slippery pair, I will say. Quite hard to come across,” Elias says as he approaches Jon. Hypothetically, that should be a good thing. Elias is familiar, someone Jon can trust. But in theory? He’d rather he stay away. “But, I finally caught you.”

“Wait, you knew about them?” Sasha asks. 

“I know about a lot of things, Ms.James,” 

“Too many, in fact,” Future-Jon says.

“Now, there’s no need to be like that, Archivist,”

Future-Jon flinches at the title but keeps a composed stance. Future-Martin, on the other hand, seems like a caldron about to boil over. _“Don’t_ call him that—!” He bites. 

Elias puts his hand on Jon’s shoulder. It doesn’t feel comforting, not like Future-Martin’s hand on his future self appears to be. This feels like Elias is about to grow claws and dig in. “You’ve always been the emotional one, haven’t you, Martin?” 

“You don’t know anything about me,”

“No, Martin. I know _everything_ about you,” He chuckles like it’s some sort of inside joke. “Now, why don’t we make this easier for everyone? I return Jon to his friends, and you two,” He points at the Future Gang with his chin. “Come with me.”

“Hey, what do you think—”

Elias raises his hand, the one not holding Jon in place. “It’s okay. Ms.Tonner. This will benefit us both, I assure you. After all, this isn’t the Jon you were after, is he?”

Daisy grunts. “Fine, carry on,”

Future-Jon huffs. “Alright, we’ll go with you,”

“But you’ll let Jon go first,” Adds Future-Martin.

Elias pauses for a second. “Fine.”

Jon doesn’t like this. It doesn’t feel right to let Future-Jon exchange himself for, well, him. This whole situation feels wrong and it isn’t just because he almost got shot. “Wait—”

Elias shoves him forward towards the group. He stumbles on his shaky limbs until Martin catches him.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Martin whispers in his ear. 

“No, it’s not,”

“Your turn.” Says Elias.

Future-Martin takes Future-Jon’s hand as they step towards Elias.

Then, he smiles.

Here’s the thing about Martin. He’s always curling into himself, trying to hide and make himself smaller, less threatening. But as Future-Martin approaches Elias, it’s clear he’s not afraid to use his size to his advantage.

Elias looks up at him and adjusts his tie, fingers twitching, but his gaze doesn’t waver. 

Future-Martin sighs with mock-melancholy. “You did always underestimate me, Elias.”

He pulls something from his jacket, something Jon can’t see from where he stands, and shoves it into Elias’ chest before quickly stepping back.

“You little—!”

Then, Jon is not standing anywhere at all.

Michael’s door appears underneath their feet and opens like a trap door, swallowing him, his assistants, and Melanie all into the spiralling hallways.

He hears an explosion, and then the door slams closed as he falls.

Unlike his friends, Jon has never been inside Michael’s corridors before. He feels like he’s falling down a neon-lit Ikea hallway and not in a good way. Tears stream down his face as he tries to scream the panic away. His head hurts, his eyes hurt, and his brain can’t understand the shapes moving all around him, engulfing him like a vortex. He tries to reach for someone. Martin, Melanie, _anyone_. But his hands keep grasping at empty air. It smells like acid and cotton candy.

Then he’s hitting something; then he's laying on the floor of The Archives.

He sits up, trying to speak. But all that comes out his dry heaving. Nope. Perhaps talking is off the table for the moment.

“What just happened?” Tim asks on behalf of everyone.

“The Archivist and I made a deal,” Michael explains. Oh great, he’s here. “I just did my part. They didn’t want you there,”

They all lay there in silence, gasping for air and trying to process the last half hour.

Jon slumps against Martin. He doesn’t know what else to do.

Martin’s arm circles around his shoulder, broad and warm and gentle, and he finally feels safe. “What do we do now?”  
  
“I don’t know, Martin. I don’t know.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This concludes Act 2 of this fic! The third and final Act should be beginning soon after posting this
> 
> Shoutout to my friend who I once again harassed into helping me outline this chapter, it’s almost an Act finale tradition at this point (and if you guys want to see the original outline we made, which is a mess, I’ll post it on my Tumblr @Orcas-havenochill)


	22. SOURCE: JUST TRUST ME ON THIS ONE BRO

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Sorry for the very very delayed update, finishing the outline for Act 3 turned into rewriting all of it which was a mess and a half and with school coming back and all it I didn’t have much time to figure it out. Thank you for your patience and enjoy the chapter !

  
So, Elias Bouchard is evil. That… is not really a surprise. All bosses are a little bit evil, after all (no offence, Jon)

What does come as a surprise is that he’s _supernaturally_ evil. They technically don’t have any evidence to prove the fact (yet!) but he’s got to be, there’s simply no other explanation.

Martin remembers everything after Jon’s disappearance in a blur. He knows he, Tim, Sasha, Melanie, and the Time Travelers stepped into Michael’s corridors in hopes to be led to Jon, which were as nauseating and confusing as being high in a hall of mirrors (Martin would _not_ recommend being high in a hall of mirrors, let alone by yourself). He knows the Time Travellers stayed back for a moment, and that he hadn’t thought much about it. Then they were all spat out in the middle of the woods where Jon stood behind Officer Hussain and some strange lady who were arguing over him, and Martin knows Jon had never looked smaller than in that moment. Elias, inexplicably, had also been there with an impatient tap of his foot like he had places to be. But the man’s entire demeanour shifted the second he laid Eyes on Future Jon and Future Martin. Elias has always been smug, Martin has learned that’s usually a given with men like him. But when he Looked at the Time Travellers he didn’t just look smug, he seemed downright menacing. And Martin felt fear slip between his ribs and seep right into his core. After all, they were still him and Jon; and if they were not safe, who’s to say he and Jon are? 

Then Elias had the audacity to trade-off Jon for the Time Travelers and Martin felt sick. Jon is _not_ a bargaining chip. Neither of them. 

After that, they all got dropped into Michael’s hallways again and no one can say with certainty what happened. But, they are all pretty sure Future Martin blew Elias up with an explosive he must’ve sneaked out of Gertrude's storage unit. Or something.

Insanity of _that_ statement aside (Martin is not brave, Martin is not strong. He’s the emotional one like Elias said. And yet…) none of that makes Elias supernaturally evil. Untrustworthy? Very. Worthy of Martin’s eternal resentment? Most definitely. But not downright supernaturally evil. No, the problem is that Elias should’ve never survived that explosion. He had _really_ thought Elias was dead, it only makes sense after an explosion like that. Yet, the next day they heard from Rosie, who is Elias’ emergency contact, that he had been admitted into the hospital with severe burns from head to toe. 

_Okay,_ Martin had thought, _miracles happen sometimes, right?_

A week later Elias dared to show his face at The Archives, his body covered in a full-body cast sat on a wheelchair pushed by Rosie.

“Hello, Jon,” He smiled, chipper as ever. “I was wondering if we could talk about your friend Melanie.”

Jon slammed the door to the Archives on his face.

There is absolutely no way Elias should’ve been able to recover enough from his injuries to leave the hospital within a week. He shouldn't have survived that explosion to begin! It doesn’t take a genius to know that with the gravity of his burns Elias should’ve stayed on that hospital bed for months, a bomb literally blew up on the guy, for god’s sake.

So, obviously, their boss is supernatural in some way, shape or form. 

(And, okay, none of that technically proves he’s _evil_. But, well, just trust Martin on this one)

No one has heard from the Future Gang since the explosion. He’s entertained the idea that they might have— but no. If Elias managed to survive the explosion, surely so did they?

Figures, they probably knew about Elias all along. Not that Martin would ever condone murder… But, maybe they had their reasons. He wishes he could ask them about it. He wishes they would _answer_ if he asked.

Everyone at the Archives has been on edge, with everything that’s happened who’s to know where a new riddle or threat would jump out from the shadows. At this point, they’re half-expecting Melanie’s traumatized future self to pop up from Michael’s door announcing the end of times any day now. They work in the Archives, they eat in the Archives, more often than not they _sleep_ in the Archives. He doesn’t want to say they’ve been barricaded down there but, well, that is kind of what they’ve been doing. There’s just something about the Archives that makes them feel safe, Martin doesn’t know if he wants to explore why at the moment. 

Jon has been taking it the worse out of all of them, which makes sense seeing how he was kidnapped and all. Marton hopes he’s able to help him somehow, it hurts to see Jon so scared all the time. He’s always been paranoid, which Martin thinks is justified by the situation, but it’s never been this bad. All spiders are killed on-sight nowadays.

Martin sighs and pours the sweet monstrosity Jon calls tea into his mug, the one with the cynical cat pun, and heads to his office. Tim and Sasha have been up in the Library doing god-knows-what for a few hours and Melanie is taking a nap on the break room couch. He wishes he could nap, he hasn’t had a good rest for two weeks now.

“Knock knock,” He says instead of actually knocking (he’s noticed Jon doesn’t like knocking) and walks in.

Inside, Jon sits atop his desk with his cheek pressed against his bent knee. He’s holding a tape recorder with both hands tightly enough to make his knuckles pale and his hair has completely slipped out of his bun. Any other day Martin would take a second to be breathless at the sight of Jon’s loose hair, but the look on Jon’s face is enough to make Martin forget the swooping feeling in his chest.

Martin steps closer tentatively. “Jon?”

His head snaps up like he just realized Martin is in the room. “Martin,” He says in a tone he can never understand.

“I brought you tea,” he smiles with a small shrug. “Obviously,” 

“Obviously,” Jon murmurs slowly like he’s testing how the word tastes on his mouth.

(Like he’s only now realizing Martin caring for him will always be a given.)

“Are you okay? I mean— dumb question. Hah. I just meant—”

Jon’s lips twitch up in a fond smile. Small and crooked and it means everything to Martin. “Thank you, Martin,” He says and puts down the tape recorder to reach out for the mug.

“Mhm,”

(If Martin purposely brushes his fingers against Jon, for just a second, while passing him his tea— Well, who’s to know?)

Jon holds the cup gently between quietly trembling hands and hums sweetly as he brings the drink to his chapped lips. Martin feels as if he should look away. He doesn’t, but he can see the tape recorder Jon had been holding from the corner of his eye and it tugs at his mind with cautious curiosity and thinly-veiled worry.

“Were you recording?” Martin asks. He knows Jon tends to feel odd after recording a statement.

“Hmm? Oh- Ahh, no,” Jon says, unsubtly looking away.

Oh. Not this again.

“Jon,” Martin sighs. “Tell me? Please?”

Jon abandons the crack in the wall he’d been glaring at to stare up at him. Martin feels pinned in place by his wide stare, eyes dark and hooded gently dancing across his face; searching.

Whatever it is he’d been looking for, he finds, and sighs in defeat. “I was listening to one of Gertrude’s tapes,” He confesses. “I… she mentions a ‘Stranger’, someone who is seemingly involved in something she called ‘The Unknowing’. I’m— this was only recorded a year or so before her death, Martin. What if this has something to-to do with it? I’m tired of walking blind, I _need_ to know what’s happening here. The-the Institute, Elias, Gertrude’s death— it’s all connected, I know it. And I, well, there’s mentions of a person Gertrude had been looking into in her statement, Jude Perry? I was thinking if I could track her down and—”

‘‘Woah, woah, woah,” Martin steps in. “Tell me you weren’t planning on going after some strange woman who may or may not be related to Gertrude’s death by yourself, Jon,”

The silence is deafening.

“Jon!” 

“I’m sorry! I just— I don’t want to keep putting you guys in any more danger,”

“And put yourself in danger instead? I don’t think so, Jon. I’m— we are in this with you, you don’t have to do this alone. I- look, it’s getting late. Let’s just… we’ll talk about this with the rest in the morning, alright?”

He huffs, but agrees. “Alright,”

Martin nods. “Good. Have you eaten yet?”

“I, um, ate a granola bar this morning?”

Martin sighs but it comes out impossibly fond. “How do you feel about curry? I think there are still leftovers from Tuesday on the fridge, ” 

Jon smiles at him again, and Martin will never tire of seeing those stupid dimples on his face. “I think I’d rather like that,”

He begins to turn toward the door. “Good! We’ll just do that and then we’ll—”

“Martin,” Jon says behind him, stopping Martin in his tracks. “You should know, this tape? It-it wasn’t one that Basira gave me. It was just… there, on my desk this morning. I think… someone is trying to tell me something,”

Oh, that’s bad. That’s really bad. Who could be sending messages to Jon? The Time Travelers, perhaps? But no, they’re not that subtle. 

“Right, that’s now good,” He decides. “But we can discuss it after we get some food in you, come on,”

Jon finally hops off the desk and follows Martin. 

“After you,” He says in front of the still-open door. 

Despite everything, at least Martin gets to have this. 


	23. I DO KNOW YOU, KIND OF

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got wayyy out of my hands, Sasha had A LOT to say

Sasha wakes up to the sight of Jon and Martin looming over her. That’s never a good sign.

She blinks the sting of the Archive lights away. It’s not very well lit down here, but enough to put you off if you’ve been awakened abruptly by your bonkers coworkers and running on four hours of sleep. “Good morning?” She rasps, sleep clinging stubbornly to her tongue.

“Morning,” Says Martin at the same time Jon says “We need to talk,”

Oh, that’s even worse. If those two are about to start talking at the same time she’s putting her two weeks notice this instance. At least they’re not saying the same thing simultaneously like the Time Travelers, that’d be too much even for her.

She supposes the ‘we need to talk’ is pretty bad, too. But Sasha needs caffeine before even thinking of dealing with that.

“Tea,” She states as she rises from the cot shoved against her desk. She should probably go to her flat and get more clothes soon. 

(God, when did she start moving into the Archives? When did any of them? Even Melanie spends more time here than not and she doesn’t even work here.)

“I’ve got you covered, Sasha of my heart,” Tim declares as he emerges from the break room holding a mug in each hand. He looks as soft and sleep-rumpled as the rest of them. A sight like that doesn’t belong in this musty Archive, she thinks.

She meets Tim in the middle and takes her designated cup: an ugly yellow-tinted thing with the words “Live Laugh Love” printed in a tacky black font. Sasha hates this mug, she refuses to drink from anything else. “You’re a lifesaver,” She tells Tim.

His ears turn a light red, she doesn’t think he knows they do that. “At your service, Miss James,”

After a minute she drags her socked feet toward the break room where Melanie is already sitting on the table, typing away on her phone.

“You look chipper,” She comments as Tim and Martin sit down beside her.

Melanie shrugs. “Been awake for a few hours now. I’ve been making a new Twitter account under the name ‘Melanie King and the—’”

Melanie’s explanation is cut off by Jon dramatically plunking a tape recorder on the middle of the break room table. Sasha just knows, down to her very core, that this man was a theatre kid.

Jon sits on the stool he dragged from somewhere, probably storage, since the break room only has four chairs. “I found this on my desk yesterday. Unmarked, no indication of where it came from or who left it there. It was recorded by Gertrude.”

(“I knew we must’ve had an Archive ghost,” Tim mumbles to her. Sasha playfully kicks his leg under the table.)

“Gertrude’s tape? As in the previous Archivist? The _Dead_ One?” Asks Melanie.

Jon nods. “I had been receiving tapes from Bas— Officer Hussain, they were found beside her body when worms attacked the Archive,”

Melanie blinks. “I’m sorry, the what.”

Jon continues as if he didn’t hear her. “Anyway, I haven’t heard from her since her friend took me out for _a stroll in the woods_ , which doesn’t surprise me. I don’t think this tape was her doing, Officer Hussain doesn’t seem like the type to leave ominous clues,”

“What does the tape say? Sasha asks, itching for answers. She’s learned so many things during the last two weeks, the main one being that her boss is some sort of supernatural entity. It’s _fascinating—_ bad, too, of course, Elias being supernatural puts them all at risk, if she’s learned anything about the supernatural. But it’s so very intriguing. What does his… _condition_ mean for the Institute, for all of them? 

“It’s a statement— uh case number #0141010, Sebastian Skinner. He had an encounter with some ‘Stranger’, in the statement they call them ‘I Do Not Know You’,” 

Sasha gasps. “Hold on,” Proceeds to abandon her seat and sprints toward her desk.

“Sasha?” She distantly hears Tim call. 

“Where the hell are you!?” She hisses as she rummages through her desk drawer for her little notebook. It has to be— bingo.

She runs back to the break room and slams the notebook on the table. Huh, maybe Jon is onto something.

“‘I Do Not Know You’?” She seeks to confirm as she flips through the pages. 

“Uh, yeah. That’s what they—”

She lands on the page she was looking for and shows it to the group. “Michael has talked about it before,”

Tim’s brow twitches. “Oh,”

“You mean that Acid Trip guy?” Melanie questions, looking a little green just thinking about them.

“That’s the one. I’ve been, umm, talking to them occasionally. They say there are Dread Powers—”

“There are _what!?_ ” Martin shrieks.

“I don’t really understand it yet, which is why I hadn’t brought it up with you guys,” Or at least that's like ⅓ of the reason. “There’s several, hm, I’m not sure how many, but I Do Not Know You is one of them,”

“So the Stranger is not a single person, but rather some kind of- of supernatural being?” Jon leans forward on his stool.

“No, they’re larger than that, far larger. Not sentient, or they don’t seem to be. I-I think they feed on our fears. I Do Not Know You Would be—”

“The fear of the Unknown. The uncanny.” Jon finishes.

Sasha nods. “And clowns,”

She regrets it as soon as it comes out of her mouth.

“ _Clowns?_ ” Tim frowns. He looks relatively calm but his fists are clenched pale where they sit atop the table. “Sasha, you don’t mean—”

“Later,” 

“Sasha—”

“ _Later_.” She insists. It’s better if they talk about this alone before (IF) they bring it up with the others.

He huffs and leans back on the creaky chair, arms crossed stubbornly. 

Sasha clears her throat. Better change the subject before they start asking questions.

“What did Gertrude say about I Do Not Know You— the Stranger?”

Jon’s eyes snap back up to her from where they were scowling at her notebook. Even her neat colour-coded notes won’t give him much insight, there is too much she doesn’t know. “Mm— She seemed to think they were preparing for something she called ‘The Unknowing’. I’m not sure what she was referring to but she mentioned someone called Orsinov. I believe think they’ve been referenced in statements before, actually—”

Tim sits upright abruptly. “The Circus of The Other. They _have_ to be behind whatever this ‘Unknowing’ thing is,”

“Right! From statement, uhh,”

“Number 0051701,” Supplies Sasha. “The one with the—”

“Calliope.” They finish at the same time, although with wildly different pronunciations of the word.

“What are we supposed to do with this? We don’t even know what these things are,” Melanie says.

“Well,” Jon starts, suddenly looking less upbeat. “I was going to try to contact one of the women from the statement, Jude Perry,”

“But he's not,” Martin chimes in pointedly. “Because that’s insane,”

“We need to find information somehow,” Argues Melanie.

“I think I have a better idea,” Suggests Sasha. “You guys could talk to Michael,”

“No, no way!” Tim quickly opposes. 

“Look,” Insists Sasha. “He can probably find us leads that won’t get us killed, and we _need_ leads. There’s only so much we can do in this dusty basement,’’

“Are you sure he’s not dangerous, Sasha?” Martin asks hesitantly. 

“I’ve talked to Michael plenty of times and I’m still alive,” She shrugs and looks at the group.

Jon and Melanie nod in agreement. After a minute Martin sighs and decides to go along.

“Tim?” Sasha prompts.

“We shouldn’t be getting involved with those things,”

“But?”

He sighs in defeat. “But it’s the safest option we have,”

“Great! We’ll talk to them tomorrow,” Sasha drums her hands on the table excitedly. “Just leave it to me.”

  
  
  
  


“So when were you going to tell us?”

Tim’s voice echoes in the tunnels.

Shortly after finishing their then-cold tea that morning Tim and Sasha went for a walk. And by a walk, they mean down in the tunnels. The entrance to The Archives is still barricaded and, to be honest, no one is entirely sure of how to take it apart without it collapsing on top of them. So they took to coming and leaving through the tunnels. Martin mapped out an alternative exit a few blocks away back when he was still exploring the tunnels. It comes up to an abandoned parking lot and, most of the time, they can find it somewhat easily. It’s not a perfect system, the tunnels under the Institute are confusing on the best days and downright nonsensical on the worse. But there aren’t many other options, at least none that they are willing to take.

Sasha huffs through her nose. “I— I don’t know, alright? It felt like too soon and—”

“The _truth_ Sasha,” Tim presses.

She bites her cheek. Fine. “That is the truth. But I also didn’t want you guys to… discourage me,” That’s one way to put it.

“So you were just never going to tell me you know what my brother!?”  
  
“It’s not like that! We’re not even sure it was actually I Do Not Know You,”  
  
“ _I am_ sure! What else—”

Quietly, under the echo of Tim’s rant, Sasha hears the noise of footsteps that are trying too hard to stay quiet. She knows it’s not Jon, Martin, or Melanie. They were all quite busy with a pile of statements that might be related to I Do Not Know You when they left. So who is this? Could it be—?

“Tim, be quiet,” She says as she lifts her torch, searching eyes squinting through the darkness around her.

Tim sputters. “Be quiet!? Sasha I—”

She covers his mouth with her hand. “I _mean_ it,” She whispers. “There’s someone else in here,”

He looks like he’s about to protest, but after a moment he lifts his torch and begins looking alongside her with quiet suspicion. 

Following the direction Sasha believes the footsteps came from she begins heading down a tunnel that looks identical to every other tunnel until they hit a curve. It could very well be her imagining things, but Sasha feels as if the second they pass that curve the acoustics of the place change in a way they shouldn’t be able to. The footsteps sound significantly louder.

“Do you hear that?” She whispers. Tim nods. She considers giving up the pretense of stealth and just running toward this mystery person, but then the footsteps come to an abrupt stop.

“What?” She frowns. “Tim, can you—”

Then the footsteps are coming from her.

There! Sasha whips around, flashing her torch down the tunnel they just came from. She squints through her glasses and in the darkness she makes out the figure of what seems to be an old man in ragged clothes. He startles, and before Sasha has the chance to ask for his identity the man lifts a book and the walls are suddenly groaning, closing in front of him, leaving her and Tim once again alone in the tunnels.

“What the hell,” Gapes Tim.

“Jurgen Leitner,” Sasha decides. 

“That dust-eating rat man? No way,”

“Do you know of any other old men that hang out in these tunnels?”

Tim seems to consider it for a second. “Fuck,’’ He settles which is a very valid response.

They stand there for a minute, grappling with the fact that they just found Jurgen Leitner from The Library of Jurgen Leitner and somehow let him slip between magic walls.

And then she realizes. “How are we going to make it back?” She asks, looking at the tunnel he just blocked. The tunnel Tim and Sasha just came from. Dust-eating rat indeed.

  
  
  
  


In the end, it takes them three hours to make it back to the Archives.

  
  
  
  
  


The way back is ushered by a heavy silence between Tim and Sasha. She knows she owes Tim an apology, but right now she’s feeling too shaken up by her counter with Jurgen Fucking Leitner to say anything that would come off as genuine. She keeps an eye on their shadows on the wall in case she catches another join their silhouette. Or two, they still have no clue of where the Time Travelers could’ve gone after blowing up Elias.

Tim and Sasha come to an empty Archivist’s office when they finally make it out of the tunnels. The pile of statements Jon, Melanie, and Martin had been working through left sitting mostly untouched atop the desk. They look at each other with concern on their brows and hurry toward the door. 

Outside, Sasha and Tim find them gathered around Melanie’s gaming PC which she moved to the Archives at some point (?). The three of them have varying degrees of concern and horror painted on their faces as they stare at the blinding screen. Sasha doesn’t know if she feels alarmed or thrilled. She settles for a healthy mix of both.

“Guys?” Tim asks.

Martin jumps and Melanie startles as they turn to them, but Jon’s eyes remain stuck firmly on the monitor. 

“Oh, hey,” Martin clears his throat. “We, uh, got some news,”

Sasha’s already squeezing between Jon and Martin to look at the screen. It shows a news article by some American newspaper. The headline reads: “NO SUSPECTS FOUND FOR FIRE AT THE USHER FOUNDATION”. On its left side, the webpage suggests similar articles following the story.

“It’s them,” Jon says, his glassy eyes drilling daggers into the screen.

Sasha nods. They found their Time Travelers.

  
  
  



	24. THE SKY (DEROGATORY)

Sasha pulls a lava lamp out of her bag and connects it to the coffee shop’s electrical outlet before placing it on the table.

Michael happily wiggles fingers that are sharper than they seem. “I like this,” He decides. “I like this a lot. Do they come in other colours?” Sasha nods. “Good.”

Michael grabs the lava lamp by the glass and puts it… inside his pocket? Or so it seems, roughly yanking the cable out of the outlet. Jon finds himself briefly concerned about fire. He’s had burning buildings in his mind a lot lately. “What do you want to know?”

“I Do Not Know You,” Sasha starts. She, Jon, and Melanie are all squished on the same side of the booth with Sasha between them. Jon feels a little like a very unfit bodyguard. “I need more information about it, and I need people who can provide said information,”

“Without killing us,” Melanie adds. She’s been typing on her phone for most of the duration of this meeting and Jon isn’t sure he wants to know why. Ex-YouTuber things, he guesses.

“Why, dear Sasha, tire of me already?” Micahel laughs like a headache. Jon winces against the buzzing of his skull. 

“You know I know you can’t tell us that much,” Sasha deadpans.

Michael shrugs as he picks up his now-cold coffee. He doesn’t drink from it. “It is what it is,”

“Is it?” Jon mumbles though he understands this is the Time Traveler’s doing. At every corner, they keep running into roadblocks created by them. Why are they so dedicated to keeping Jon— and his assistants— in the dark?

Michael laughs again. “Easy, Archivist. I’m only following our deal,”

Jon’s eyebrow twitches. “I did _not_ —”

“So!” Sasha prompts loudly, drumming her fingers on the table with what could either be impatience or anxiety. “Do you know anyone?”

“I know many people,” Michael waves the question off. “Have you watched Howl’s Moving Castle? I thought it was a stupendous movie, I especially liked The Scarecrow,”

“What, Turnip-Head?”

“Who?” Michael says. Sasha forces a smile as Jon tries to catch up. He’s never watched any Studio Ghibli films and he doesn’t know why they’re talking about a scarecrow of all things.

(That’s technically a lie. There was a time where Jon used to watch Spirited Away with Georgie every weekend without fail back in Uni. He hasn’t watched Spirited Away or any Ghibli movie since.)

“Prince Justin,” Sasha continues despite her obvious impatience. He’s sure Sasha likes Michael, but he knows she likes direct answers even more. And those don’t seem to come easily with Michael. “You know, you kind of look like him,”

“What, because I’m blonde?” For a moment, Jon fears Sasha might have offended Michael’s blonde sensibilities, but then he smiles and sips coffee that wasn’t there before— wait, was it? Before saying “If you want to learn more about scarecrows, go visit Harriet Fairchild,”

“Harriet Fairchild” Sasha repeats, thinking.

“Statement number #0022010,” Jon supplies, the numbers popping into his head as easily as thinking about his own name. A little odd, he’s never been one to have a good memory. 

Sasha snaps her fingers in recognition. “The guy that got eaten by the sky?”

Michael leans back against his seat, hands curling around a cup of freshly brewed tea. “That’s the one,”

“ _Yikes_ ,” Melanie mumbles under her breath.

Jon is about to go ahead and ask where they’re supposed to find this Harriet, but then he feels the crinkle of a paper between fingers. When did that get there? Was it when they arrived? Or—

It’s an address.

  
  
  
  


Martin sulks the entire way to Open Skydiving. 

(“When I said we should look for other sources of information,” He had said when Jon came back from meeting Michael. “I didn’t mean monsters known for throwing people off airplanes!”

Jon squeezed Martin’s arm gently. “I know,” He conceded. “But, Martin, we’re running out of options. And we _need_ this information,”

He’d looked straight into Jon’s eyes like he was trying to drill into his brain before sighing. “Fine,” He agreed. “But I'm coming with you.”)

Martin agreed to the trip, but he never said he’d do it happily and Jon respects that. He, Martin, and Melanie have been on the road for about an hour now. The car is completely silent except for Martin’s playlist filling the air with 90’s Top Hits. Jon thinks it’s endearing, but with his arms crossed as he looks out the window he doesn’t think Martin would appreciate the comment. So instead he resolves to ask Melanie what she’s been up to.

“Oh,” She says, seeming surprised by Jon’s interest. “I’m starting a Twitter blog about the, well, the entities I guess. So many people go through supernatural experiences and have no idea of what’s going on, and places like _The Magnus Institute_ — _”_ She scoffs. “—do nothing to help, they just store the information away to rot after it’s done. So, I was thinking if people could have easier access to this information, maybe that could help them if something happens? Kind of like how you know you most likely will never run into a shark, but it’s still good to know what to do just in case,” She explains.

Jon huffs, but he knows she’s right. The Institute is not really in the business of helping people beyond offering an admittedly meager list of therapists to talk about their unbelievable supernatural trauma. Maybe preventive measures could help people against whatever their entities are. If they believe the information, that is.

“That’s amazing,” Martin says as he turns to look back at Melanie. “What’s the handle?”

Melanie snorts. “@MelanieKingAndTheArchives.”

Jon frowns at the road ahead. “But you don’t work at the Archives,”

He sees her wave her phone with a smirk through the rearview mirror. “It’s an online Archive of supernatural knowledge, Sims. That is, my Archives,”

“I’m not sure that’s how Archives work,”

“Jon, you don’t know how Archives work, period.” Martin deadpans.

Jon sputters as Melanie cracks up in the backseat. “I— That’s not—”

But when he turns to look at Martin he’s smiling at him, all rosy-cheeked and tender-eyed and, well, Jon never had the chance to be mad at him to begin with.

  
  
  
  


Harriet Fairchild is a young woman with old, neverending eyes.

She smiled at them when they arrived at Open Skydiving and Jon immediately felt unnerved by how… _normal_ she looked. With creatures like Prentiss, there was no doubt of what you were seeing, the worms pouring out of her like pus out of a zit being sort of a dead giveaway. But Fairchild looked like a perfectly normal human, you wouldn’t think twice if you passed by her on the street.

Then again, Michael also looks fairly normal as long as you don’t look too closely. And Jon is starting to get dizzy the more he looks at Harriet.

“Hello!” She greets cheerfully. There’s no one else here which makes sense seeing how this place isn’t technically real. “Are you guys here for—”

“Actually,” Jon interrupts. Shit. He’s always getting ahead of himself and this is _definitely_ not the time for that. “Are you Harriet Fairchild?” He decides to ask despite her name tag displaying the answer. 

Something hardens about her demeanour. “That would be me.” She says. “And you are?”

“Jonathan Sims,” Jon introduces himself. Belatedly, he considers giving her a fake name. Oh, well. “I come from The Magnus Institute,” 

“Ah,” Harriet’s smile returns to her face but… different. Less fake but decisively not any kinder. “I didn’t know Gertrude was dead,” She muses.

“You knew—?”

“And who are these?” Harriet glances at Martin and Melanie standing silently behind Jon. 

“They are… my assistants,” Jon settles. It’s easier than saying “this is my favourite assistant and my ex-YouTuber who keeps following me around’’ and he doubts Harriet would care for that many details anyway.

Not that Martin is his favourite assistant, he doesn’t have a “favourite”. Martin is just… different. 

“Hi,” The man in question waves awkwardly. Jon resists the urge to roll his eyes fondly, he knows when Martin is attempting to make himself seem as non-threatening as possible. He supposes coming off as intimidating wouldn’t be a good thing when talking to someone known for being involved with the people-eating sky.

Melanie, for her part, just nods at Harriet and keeps typing away. He wonders if Harriet has Twitter. Hopefully, she’ll never see @MelanieKingAndTheArchives. He doesn’t think Harriet would like what she’d find.

Jon clears his throat. “Ah— We wanted to ask you some questions,”

Harriet huffs but the smile doesn’t leave her face. If anything it stretches further, digging into her sunburnt cheeks. “Of course you do, that’s all your lot do,”

Jon doesn’t know who ‘his lot’ is supposed to be. Gertrude, perhaps? Archivists as a whole? He doesn’t imagine she’s met that many Archivists. “Who—?”

Harriet turns around and starts heading towards the back. “Come with me!” She calls.

Jon follows. It’s not like he has anywhere else to go.

  
  
  
  
  


Jon doesn’t like walking where planes are landing and taking off around him, but being _in_ the planes would be considerably worse so he keeps his mouth shut.

Until he doesn’t. “You’re featured in some of our statements,” He mentions. “At the Institute, that is,”

This seems to cheer Harriet up. “Is that so?” She chuckles. “I wasn’t expecting that, not many people make it out of here after all,”

Was that a threat? Jon hopes that wasn’t a threat. He feels Martin scooch closer to him. Good. Martin is safe, whatever happens, he’ll be fine if Martin is there. He realizes this line of thinking makes no actual practical sense but it does a very good job at soothing his nerves.

He still turns around to check Melanie is following close behind them. Just in case. She seems to be trying to discreetly take pictures of the place.

“Yeah,” Jon hums for lack of something better to say. He doesn’t want to come off as too over-or-under enthusiastic. “A guy got eaten by the sky shortly after coming here,”

Harriet sighs with.... _wonderment?_ “I remember when I got eaten by the sky,” 

A part of Jon doesn’t want to ask. That part, as it turns out, is very small compared to the one that _does_.

“ _How did that happen?_ ”

Harriet chuckles again, but there’s a sharp edge to her voice. “Careful with the questions, Archivist,” She warns. And yet she continues. “I was a very lonely child, you know. Always jumping from foster home to foster home…”

Jon doesn’t have time to question what that has to do with, well, _anything_ , before he’s being sucked into her story like a child slipping off a railing while staring at the motions of the river below, endless water swirling downwards towards the soupy, cold depts… 

(He finds himself reaching unconsciously into his bag for a tape recorder— how did that get there?— turning it on. The whirl of the tape lulls him like waves hitting the shore)

He learns that Harriet’s parents died in a plane crash. An accident that, albeit rare, made her afraid of heights for most of her young life. He learns about her many foster families, the kind ones, the cruel ones, how after so many homes they all started to blur together. They didn’t matter, in the end. _She_ didn’t matter, and that was okay. That meant boundless freedom to do as she pleased without worrying about what others might think or say, about how she’d be punished or moved to a new home once she inevitably ran away. No matter the size of the house she was staying at she always felt like she was confined, locked tight in a box far too small for her. The only place she felt truly comfortable was under the crushing pressure of an endless sky, the infinite reminder that she was but an infinitesimal speck in the world, her footprint so inconsequential it would wash away the second she stepped away from the cold sand.

And then she threw herself off a cliff.

“Hmm,” Harriet muses after finishing her story. Jon is still shaking himself off from whatever that was. He feels like he just spent three days floating away in the middle of the dead sea. “That actually felt nice,” Harriet decides. “I’m not usually one to ramble, it serves no purpose,”

Jon blinks hard in a final attempt to come back to Earth. “The Vast? You mentioned something called the Vast?”

Harriet waves her hand mindlessly. “Oh, it has many names. The Vast, The Falling Titan, The Awful Depth. It’s all the same, really, the pit in your stomach when you look down a chasm, the knowledge that you’ll always be too small and insignificant to ever matter and stuff,” She shrugs. Hmm, Jon doesn’t believe Sasha has that one on her list.

Jon frowns. “And you enjoy that?’’

“I _revel_ in it, Archivist,” Harriet closes her eyes as if reminiscing. “Not that _you_ would understand,”

“Who is ‘ _you’_?” Jon finally spits out. “I mean, I don’t—”

Harriet looks down at him like a pitiful child, ignorant and confused. “An Archivist that doesn’t _know,_ ” She shakes her head with amused disbelief. “How comical,”

“Why do you keep calling me Archivist?” He keeps pressing. Michael does it, too. It’s odd, and he doesn’t know if it quite fits him. He’s _an_ archivist, not _The_ Archivist.

And yet Harriet says “That’s what you are, aren’t you?” 

“I suppose? I just—”

“You’re not getting it,” Harriet shakes her head as she comes closer. “I think you need a more interactive demonstration, Archivist,”

  
  
  
  


Martin keeps having to stop the car for Jon to throw up.

Martin actually left a few minutes ago. Went to buy some water or something, but to be honest, Jon is too busy recovering from being psychologically thrown off a plane to be entirely sure. Right now, He finds himself leaning against the open door of the car, trying his best to not part with the rest of his breakfast. The _one time_ he does have breakfast!

Melanie awkwardly pats him on the back. “There, there,” She says. “Your boyfriend will be back with your things soon,”

“He’s not my—!” Any arguments are cut off by vomit coming up his throat and into the parking lot floor.

( _‘his boyfriend’_ he scoffs in his head. Martin is not his boyfriend, they’re friends! Very good friends if you ask Jon. The fact that he sometimes stays up at night thinking about him is not relevant at all. About his kindness, his clever remarks, about the few times he allows himself to laugh as loud and obnoxiously as he can and his unexpectedly muscular arms and the adorable downy curls that frame his face like a portrait made of the loveliest paint strokes…)

“Hullo!” Martin sings as he returns. Jon startles himself into a coughing fit. “I couldn’t find the raisin cinnamon bars I know you like so I got these instead. I hope you don’t mind,”

Jon looks at the chocolate granola bars and swallows down his drumming heart. “They’re perfect,” Jon chokes out. That was not at all what he meant to say. “Thank you, Mar.” 

Martin smiles at him and goes to sit on the driver’s seat. “How are you holding up?” He asks. “Oh, wait. Melanie, for you,” He passes Melanie a pack of drumstick squashies.

“Fuck yeah,” Melanie celebrates and punches Martin on the arm as… thanks?

He clears his throat. “Could be worse,” Jon decides. “I just wish we’d learnt something about The Unknowing before I got hit with supernatural vertigo,”

Martin grimaces. “Yeah,” He says, and then “I’m sorry,”

“What for?”

“I couldn’t help you,” Martin looks down at his hands. “It was so _odd_ , I felt like I couldn’t talk when you two were speaking. It was like—like my throat was all closed up and I couldn't do anything and then—“

Impulsively, Jon takes Martin’s hands on his and _squeezes_ in a way he hopes is reassuring. “And you got me out of there,” Jon finishes. He remembers, in his disorientation, how Martin immediately put himself between Jon and Harriet. How he would've probably done a few things he’d regret if not for Melanie guiding them towards the exit. “You did more than enough,”

“So did I!” Adds Melanie from the backseat. “Don’t take my credit, dude,” 

Martin panics. “No— I’m not— I—!”

Melanie laughs. “I’m just messing with you! You did fine, Martin. What happened was, well, it was pretty fucked up,”

“We’ve been through worse,” Martin frowns.

“Doesn’t make it any less scary,” Jon argues. 

“Yeah, for _you_ , but—”

“I’m not arguing about this anymore,” Jon settles. He squeezes Martin’s hands once more before letting go and reaching for his granola bar. “Do you think they have a gift shop?” Jon continues before Martin has a chance to oppose. “I went to Open Skydiving and all I got was this lousy shirt?”

Martin blinks once, then again, and then he’s falling about with laughter and, woah, there’s something to be said about Martin’s smile making Jon’s stomach swoop not unlike when he was psychologically falling from the sky. 

Oh.

Oh, fuck. Maybe he _does—_

“Jon are you about to— oh shit, not again,”

“Should we get him some Gatorade or something?”

“I feel like we should just wait for his stomach to empty?

“Hm. If you say so,”

“Just— let’s turn off the car.”

  
  
  
  



End file.
